Final week: Graf

Self as a Writer
Thought one:
I need to spend more time reading. I know that that is the foundation to my problems. If I read more, I would improve my grammar, spelling and diction. I know that I need to work on proof reading, and maintaining tense. But I am aware of it and try to correct the problem. I read aloud, and sometimes I print the pieces and physically edit with a red pen. When I proof, Ihave a habit to read right over the incorrect word and say the word that I think is there.
I have pushed myself through this course, and through the many times that I was frustrated and wanted to give up. But I didn’t, I am tired of being a quitter.
I use to enjoy writing, now I have begun to look at it differently. Honestly, there was more stress involved than there was fun. But again, I think that that steams back to the fact that I don’t read for pleasure. As a writer, I was not as creative as I have been in the past. I took a lot of the assignments literally, even when thoughts came to mind that were not literal interpretations. I just couldn’t develop the creative thought into anything beyond a few sentences, so I would go with the literal. But also, maybe in my growth I have become more left brained than right. Though there were pieces, I wrote this semester that I liked, and felt were creative.
Thought two:
There were many times that I would sit down to type, but I had very little to say. I felt distracted by other thoughts. It was like I was at loss for words. As a young person, and a young writer, I still need to find myself, and my voice. However, when I did find a prompt, or snatched up an idea that lit up that bulb, I could go on and on, and it would flow.
Thought three:
I did not feel as confident as I did in high school creative writing. I had more time for each piece in HS. Writing is a form of art, art doesn’t just appear, it is crafted. You see I am a stream of conscious writer, and then I spend the most time crafting and revising my work. I was truly challenged in this writing experience; it was demanding but also flexible. My mind was twisted into a pretzel for most of it. I guess really, I don’t know where I stand as a writer. I used to write all the time, but I found that painting did more for me, I enjoy the process more.
Thought four:
I am a still a beginner. I still have a lot to learn; content, grammar, and style. I write about things that mean something to me, I used to call myself and emotionalist. I am still searching for my voice. I think that I do well with images, and tones. However, the view is usually, I ..blah blah blah.. I.. blah blah. . I. .. I. . Yeah definitely need to get out of that self centered prospective. I think that I would do better in fiction writing, I have come to this conclusion just recently. I wish that the rhythm would come to me, and I would be filled with great gratification after every piece that I write. But that is not how learning works, the only way to learn is through failure, and I am sure that I have failed on some of these assignments. In the beginning of the course, you said, writing is a test of character. Well believe me, my character has been tested.

Final week: Revision

39. Original
I slowly open the bathroom door, and sneak in. The air is warm and misty. Wes’ clothes lay on the floor, his boxers still in his jeans. He had just stepped out of them. His black T-shirt and sneakers are covered in flour from the bakery. I quietly unzip my jeans, and slide them down my legs, followed by my panties, and step of out of them. I pull my tank top over my head, and toss it on top of my jeans. I lay my jewelry on his towel, so to not make any noise, and surprise him. I pull back the curtain, without sliding it on the rod, and step into the tub. He stands with his back to me; I move toward him and slide my hands up and around his torso. “Ohh, Hello.” He says, as he turns to face me.“Hello” The water pours from the showerhead, and trickles from out shoulders to our feet, warming our bodies. I put my arms around him, he presses his naked body to mine, and I rest my head on his chest. We embrace quietly and listen to the rhythm of the water for a long while.Wes interrupts the quietness, “Good to see you.” And kisses the top of my head; I look up at him, and kiss his wet lips.

39. Revised
I anxiously wait for my Honey to return from work, I keep checking out the living room window, hoping to catch a glimpse of him coming up the driveway. I return to the kitchen, to whip up the mashed potatoes for dinner. I hear him stomping up the steps. I greet him at the door, pulling it open just before he can get hand to the doorknob.
“Hello Honey!” I say with excitement.
“Well Hello.” He says and kisses my puckered lips.
“You taste like flour.”
“Well yeah, I am a baker... I’m covered in it.” He removes his jacket.
“Are you hungry? I made dinner, it’s almost done.”
“Yeah.” He says as he steps into the bathroom and blows flour out of his nose.
“I just want to take a shower first.” He closes the door and starts the shower.
I hear the curtain slide across the rod, and back again.
I set the table with two of everything; two plates, folks, cups and napkins.
With a mischievous grin on my face, I cover the potatoes and turn off the oven. I slowly open the bathroom door and sneak in. The room is warm, misty and inviting.
Wes’ clothes lay on the floor, his black T-shirt and sneakers are covered in flour.
I quietly unzip my jeans, and slide them down my legs, followed by my panties, and step of out of them. I pull my tank top over my head, toss it on top of my jeans, and lay my jewelry on his towel.
I pull back the curtain, without sliding it on the rod, and step into the tub. He stands with his back to me; I move toward him and slide my hands up his torso and around to his chest.
“Ohh, Hello.” He says, and turns to face me.
I smile at him.
The water pours from the showerhead, and trickles from our shoulders to our feet, warming our bodies. I put my arms around him, and run my finger nails down his spine. Even in the warmth of the water, goose bumps raise on his skin and he quivers. He bites his bottom lip and slides in hands along the contour lines of my female figure, stops at my hips and pulls them to his own. We embrace, locking our naked bodies together. I rest my head on his chest, he squeezes me tightly.
“Good to see you.” He says followed by a kisses on the top of my head. I look up at him and kiss his wet lips. We stand together for a long while with the water cascading down on us; our showers grew longer and hotter the colder the autumn became.

Theme Fifteen: Journal

Journal Entry 1:
Saturday December 5, 2004
Today is my day off and I have spent most of it in bed. Sleeping is my favorite hobbies, aside from art.. Tomorrow I have to work a double. Working at a Chinese restaurant really isn’t that bad and we get a good amount of business. Besides, I should be grateful that I have a job, there are very few places open in the winter good ol’ Baah Hahbah. I should also be grateful that I wait tables. Making cash for a living and receiving instant gratification is a positive reinforcement. It is tough with everything still being new to me, and it is different severing locals, than serving tourists.
Well my brain doesn’t really feel like working anymore this evening, so good night. 10:45 pm.

J.E. 2:
Sunday December 6, 2004
I have returned from work and begun cooking dinner for two. I am really getting tired of these doubles, in spite of their short durations. This past summer when I worked doubles they were 15 hour days and maybe an hour break, if I was lucky. At this restaurant, the hours vary, but average 6-8 hours. I know, I know, that isn’t bad. But I work the beginning of the week 10:30 to around 2. Fridays and Sundays, I work the morning and return in the evenings. We have the buffet Friday night and Sunday morning, so two of my shifts consist of bussing tables and running drinks. I have Saturdays off, and Mondays off. Yeah, now that it is all laid out in front of me, it looks like a easy schedule. Well I would rather lump the doubles together and lump the days off together.
Additionally, I am going through the adjustment period. I keep comparing everything to Acadia, because that is the routine that I spent the entire summer and fall doing. So now working in another restaurant down the street, I am indecisive about how things are. Should I stay, or should I go?
It is nice that there are only two servers, a Russian girl named Yulia and myself. But the only time we work together in on Friday night buffet. This way it gives us the opportunity to make the most money, (depending on business.) Yulia has been there for two years, so she knows everything, and works very quickly.
Me on the other hand, everything is different, the plates are awkward, I don’t know the 23 categorized, seven paged menu. My manager and three members of her family work at the restaurant, they are from China, so they obviously are familiar with the menu. Although neither of the cooks speak much English. So that makes me the only American. When I am there during the day, I listen to Chinese music, and my co-worker converse, but I don’t understand, obviously. So I don’t really pay attention, sometimes I will hear tones, sounds that catch my attention. And with May, (manager) I can read her reactions, and gestures. But her husband has very little expression, and a lot of the time her doesn’t even look at me when I call in an order. I bend down on the counter and look through the bottom half of the window to make eye contact. But he just stands there staring up at the security monitor, like it is a football game. So it is an awkward place to be, let alone all the other unfamiliarity’s. Well that is all that I have to say about work. I have just spent a majority of the day working, and I am not going spend the entire evening talking about it. Good Night. 11:16.

J.E. 3:
Tuesday December 7, 2004
Being a night owl, ten a.m. comes early for me, especially when my bed time is between 2 and 4 a.m. I think that one of my most dreaded activities is getting out of bed when the house is cold. But I fight it, and do it every morning. I dress myself in black pants, sneakers and apron, a white V-neck top, with a colored shirt underneath; to bring some originality to the uniform.
I walk down the steps, shivering and cursing at the cold air, and gray skies. I drive a half a block and park opposite of the restaurant. I wait to cross the street as a school bus filled with kids passes by. I step into the road just in time catch the after wind of the bus, I pull my jacket closer to me. I walk into the restaurant, directly to the kitchen and clock in. I continue through the kitchen and around to the steps and fight to take off my coat, even the kitchen is cold. I walk into the dinning room and it is freezing, I feel a draft. I peak into the buffet room; someone opened the fucking window all the way! I closed it. With hands like icicles, I grab the blue bucket, fill it with ice, distribute it to the bar, soda machine, and water pictures. Oh have I mentioned that there is nothing more that I hate, than being cold! If my hands or feet are cold, I am done for. Fortunately, at this restaurant, we wash the tables before and after each shift, (Chinese food can be greasy, and sticky.) I grab two pink bowls, put one in each side of the sink in the server station and crank the hot water. I add some soap and watch the suds form, then submerge both hands into the steaming water. I go through the restaurant placing duck sauce containers on the tables, and wash them down and setting table three. (That is where the family eats dinner at night.)
We open at 11, not wanting to be there, and not wanting to be so cold, I go and my jacket. I have one of those L.L. Bean two in one jackets. I unzip the fleece liner and put it on, and go stand by the heater and flip my hands trying to warm them. I watch out the window for customers to arrive, it is snowing. I didn’t see as many of my regular customers today. But I saw some familiar faces, this one particular couple, my last couple of the day. I chatted with them about how they eat rice with chop sticks. The chop sticks are merely an extension of your fingers, and used kind of like a shovel. The gentlemen demonstrated for me, and to my surprise, I have been using them correctly. Then he picked up individual pieces of rice with the chop sticks. “Show off.” I said to him. We talked a bit about a whether, and how I hate being cold. The man agreed with me.
I stepped away and finished up my side work. Just as they were leaving, the man said that he left his fortune for me, and that it spoke to the both of us. They left, and I walked up to the table. I looked down at the check with the money on it, and under a nickel read fortune: “The whether is wonderful.” I chuckled and looked out the large window, the man and his wife were standing there, which made me laugh loudly and I smiled through the window.
4:31 pm.

J.E.4
December 8, 2004
I stayed up too late last night and went to work groggy. Fortunately, the weather wasn’t as cold and shitty this morning, so leaving my house wasn’t as shocking.
We weren’t that busy, but I saw a few of those familiar faces again. I never introduced myself to any of these people when I started, so now it seems a little awkward. I actually said to one couple today, “Hello familiar faces.”
I am catching on and working a little more quickly.
Yulia works across the street at the pet supply store and came over to ask me if I would work for her tonight. I said that I didn’t want to, but I would. She was no feeling well and was going to go home to get into bed. Business wasn’t bad today. I was able to take mostly every table. It is a 14 table section, (but not packed.) May takes tables when I am bombarded. Waiting tables isn’t that difficult, but when you work lunch and most people in town have lunch at the same time, they all come in together.
At 1:30, I clocked out and went home for a few hours, then returned for the evening shift. It was slow at first, I had two tables. At six May informed me that we were having a private party in the banquet room….35 people from the bank, they would be here at six thirty. Luckily, when large parties request the banquet room, they are offered a private buffet. The bank gladly took the offer. May’s brother, Kam came in to help me. We split the room into halves; we each had a long table and a round table. All we had to do was run drinks (in addition to water), clear plates and get the extra things that particular customers request; oh and bill ‘em. We each made out with a $ 46.00 tip. When I counted it, all I could think of was, Thank You Yulia! Out of all the shifts… The whole evening was ironic. When I first arrived, I began my side duties, filling the bar and soda station with ice. A young man sat at the bar and recognized me, happened to be an acquaintance of my boyfriend’s. I only had one new table the entire time the bankers were consuming (So I wasn’t bombarded with tasks). To boot, my second to last table of the night left me a $1.61 off of a $ 28.36 bill; and my last table of the night, left me a $15.00 dollar tip off of a $26.00 bill. Figure that one out.
It was really a strange night, and a longer day then I am used to, lately. Well I have to get up and work in the morning. My head misses the pillow.
11:56pm

J.E.5
December 9, 2004
Today sucked. I woke up tired, late and rushed. I wore the same wrinkled white shirt to work for the third day in a row. The soda machine takes turns spontaneously between spraying out soda and foam. Well I wore spots of orange soda spatter across my chest for the day. I had two customers for the hour of eleven, when one table left, I cleaned it up. My remaining customers asked me where everybody was. Well people show up around noon, and when they do they show up all together.
Not even 10 minuets later, there they all came. I didn’t see my regular customers. The people that came in knew just as much about Chinese food as I do. When you don’t know the men, all other problems stem from that! I was miserable. May had a lot of take out orders, so she couldn’t answer questions, or help me. I ran around to my six top, and they all wanted separate checks. Well we have carbon orders slips, and we keep them in books. So I had to ripe out six slips and mark each as to who it belongs to. Example: closest person to my left is labeled L1, so on and so forth. It is just too many people to handle. The same fucking thing happened at Acadia, but I could at least identify my plates, and describe food to them. I have to split the orders from fry to wok side, which mean identify each order and rewrite to order split…which defeats the carbon slip. Why do I always pick the properties that have the most difficult systems?
I have been waiting tables for six months consecutively. Between two different restaurants, I also hosted at another restaurant, on top of school and house work. This job is just putting me over the edge. It is so stressful, and my service reflects my tips, which is To Insure Proper Service, and my income; not my $ 3.13 an hour.
I think sometimes people leave me good tips in a rush, not because I provided them with speed and accuracy, but they felt bad that I was so spread out. Those customers of the eleventh hour left me a seven dollar tip, after they waited for who know how long for me to give them their bill.
I want to be good at this. I am cute and friendly, and polite. I am conscientious, sanitary, and want to make their restaurants experience enjoyable. There is nothing worse than angry, hungry customers.
I don’t know if I should stay and learn each item and master the Chinese menu, or if I should just find another restaurant that severs food I am accustom to. That right there is what has made these past five weeks, less productive. Do you know what moo shu gia pan is, what it looks like, or what it is served with? Me either. Well, my tummy is growling, I must go. 4:41pm

Theme Fourteen: Risks

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Theme 14
We take risks everyday in the decisions we make, some take more risks than others; even when they are educated about the consequences of the risks they are taking.
There are two women from my past that I still associate with. As for most of the other girls that I grew up with, they made poor decisions, and I stop hanging out with them
I cheered my freshmen year of high school for football season. There were seven girls on the squad; four of those girls now have children.
Why is it that these women have had sex education since they were ten, and they continue to sleep around promiscuously and unprotected? I call them women, only because they have the ability to procreate, but they are still girls.
My best friend in fifth grade conceived her first child at the age of fourteen, and her baby was born one day after her fifteenth birthday. She is now nineteen and has three children. Luckily, they all have the same father. But didn’t she learn the first time? Or what about the fact that her mother is young and received child support from two different fathers. The youngest of her brothers impregnated one of her friends. These kids didn’t learn strong values about sex, so they manifested the same behavior as their mother and received the same consequences. I just don’t get it.
Two of my old friends from catholic school have children, little girls may I add. One of these girl’s older brother has three babies, and all with different mothers.
I have watched a friend go through the process of guilt and depression followed by an abortion. I have waited in offices with friends, waiting to find out if they contracted an STD. I have watched these kids with their children. A year and a half ago I was titled Aunty.
I just wish that these individuals would have made better decisions; don’t get drunk and fuck, develop some discipline and integrity. Show that you respect yourself, your body and the one life that you are given.
I see children as a burden at this point in my life. If I decide to have children it won’t be until my thirties, I would want a planned pregnancy, a home, and the ability to provide a stable environment for my child.
I worked with this girl this summer; she and her boyfriend have two children together. Her boyfriend had his first child at thirteen. What kind of a childhood is that? He wasn’t even old enough to be left home alone, but he had a child?
I do sound mean, but this is what I believe in. Becoming pregnant or contracting an STD, are my greater fears in life. So I do not condone kids having kids. I don’t understand why adolescents don’t take sex seriously or engage in responsible sex. There are plenty of contraceptive methods and services available to prevent becoming pregnant or contracting STD’s.
There are always expectations. My cousin was the captain of her soccer team, and became pregnant at eighteen. Her family was religious, and her community. She and her long term boyfriend only had sex once a month, directly after her period, but she still became pregnant. Chris was born, they both graduate high school and her boyfriend enlisted into the military. After boot camp, they were married. They had one more child, two years later. Carlie went on went on birth control, and conceived their third child. Two months after giving birth to Nevin, she conceived her fourth child; soon after her husband had a vasectomy. The exception here is that they have a stable home; they are married and make positive decisions for their children.
My best friend’s older sister conceived her child the same night she lost her virginity, the condom broke.
My friend Allen dated this girl who was missing an ovary, so she couldn’t have children. Well that wasn’t true, his world came crashing down. When he was eighteen he went for a vasectomy, but they told him that you have to be in your twenties. They want to make sure that that is what he really wanted. He did, he was certain, but he was denied. Now he wants to run out on the situation. He said, “I am not a father. That is not what I am supposed to do with my life.”
A lot of the times, I see young teens with older men, some these men thrive on being the first to penetrate and virgin vagina. They tell these girls they love them, and that they are beautiful, and time over time con their way in, “Let me put in it just once with out a condom.” That is how a conception happensRelationships are risky, sex in risky, abstinence in the most preventable method. We are sexual creatures, it is instinctual, we are meant to procreate; but you can still have fun in the rain, wearing a raincoat

Theme Thirteen: Vignette

Revised

Jenna
A beautiful young lady, in the prime of her youth stands dressed in the latest brand name clothing. The hot pink against her tanning bed complexion, her face painted up in black eye make-up, she fits right in. She smells fruity and perfumed. An honor roll student, outgoing, popular, one of the captains on the OHS varsity soccer team.
She assumes her position of leadership and responsibility, and being a team player; but don’t expect her to offer to share her queen sized bed with you, when you come home to visit.
She is on the defense; aggressive, assertive, and ruthless. Not just in her "trash mouth" choice of words, or closing the door in your face as you walk behind her; but in that tone that makes your soul sink.
“Hey Jenna?”
“What the fuck do you want?”
She is rotten, demanding and sarcastic. She is still in her adolescence, and obviously still clinging to that -'I’m the baby, I will get what I want' attitude.
Her heart, mind and body rides this emotional rollercoaster, around the loop the defence drops. She's laughing, joshing around and charming.

Theme Twelve: Indirectly

Example one:
Christmas is coming quick, get out your holiday spirit. Time to get out your wreaths, and bows and wire, the outside lights, the indoor lights, and the plastic Santa and reindeer set for the roof. Get out the wrapping paper, the scotch tape, the ribbons, and the tags. Make your list, and don’t loose those receipts. The sales are here, the mobs grew near, the malls, the stores and shops are packed and the registers keep ringing. Buy the seasonal eggnog, and green and red colored M&M’s, Pepsi’s holiday spice, the Christmas cookies, and don’t forget the Christmas cards, and treats for the dog. The stockings must be hung, the tree picked out, gotta find that tree stand in the basement. Get the kids picture with Santa, make a Christmas dinner.

The Christmas season is commercialized with a Santa, and a Mrs. Santa Clause, reindeer and Santa’s little helpers. Families lie to their children, until an older kid at school tells them, “There is no such thing as Santa, you know!” And a world comes crashing down until their teacher reinforces the lies, “There really is a Santa”.

Parent’s drive their bank account balances to a slim, to provide their children with possessions that they will either out grow or destroy within days. Brawls breakout among siblings over who got the better presents. Guilt rises in those who did not have the money to provide their children or family members with gifts galore.

What is this all for? Keep being good little consumers, and keep fueling the big businesses! And kids, keep watching those commercials for the new remote controlled trucks, and real peeing dolls. Keep begging for the toys you want!

People stress themselves over these insignificant tasks, until they are sick in bed Christmas day. Buy, buy, buy and by and by you’re broke, for what? In celebration of Christ’s birth of course? Oh yeah, well what’s he getting?

Plan a dinner, take your children to the woods and chop off the top of a pine tree, decorate it with home made strands of popcorn, and spend time with those you love, and count your blessings. That is the holiday spirit.


Example Two:

Ideas and research have pushed through the years with its inventions and break troughs. We have seen the progress and shake hands daily with modern conveniences; we as a race, but more specifically as American’s, have become dependent on technology.
In the later half of the 1800’s there was a booming of break troughs; we saw the first motion picture projection, talk on a telegraph, the invention of the light bulb, and radio power.
General electric was established in 1892. (“Electricity” was first coined in the 1600’s.) Inventors pushed forward in their brainstorming and in with advancements in technology and we began distributing radio power to the US, and putting radios in cars. Nine years after the first television broadcast in London, there were 7,000 televisions in the homes across America; around the same time as canned beer.
In the 1950’s, we first began using Velcro® and eating a ‘fast food’ from McDonald’s®. We began using credit cards; which was conveniently introduced the same time as microwaves and color television broadcasting, with color commercials!
In the late 60’s though the 80’s, we go to the moon, we have vinyl records, audio cassettes, invention of the handheld calculator, VCR’s, the first computer with intergraded circuits. We have the first Arpanet (internet), we are playing Pong®, (the first video game), using cellular phones, Walkman’s®, and IBM pc’s. 8-track and Fuji® disposable cameras are introduced.
We zoom through the ‘90’s, and become materialized consumers; CD’s, high definition televisions, answering machines, Pentium processors, DVD’s (which just of 2004 out sold VHS.) We have digital everything, cordless everything, Web TV, hybrid cars, virgin births (cloning,) vegetables, ears, animals, and people. We have robotic vacuum cleaners, navigators in our cars! What the hell is going on here? Things have moved too quickly! The simple life is over, unless you can compel yourself to stay in the woods. We replace our machines with newer machines, inflation has jacked the prices, but we pay it, because we need electricity, we need the internet, and we need a cell phone. With all the ideas and research we have created conveniences to save time, but most of it just uses up our time, and distracts us from what is more important

Theme Eleven: distance,framing,alienation

Intrigued and intriguing.

Crab dip and triskets
Karate elbow door
Dusk’s rainbow

heart of strings
emotional confessions
abstract points
.
Jumbo grape
Fabric Garden

Curving mountain road
Salty kelp
Bewilderment

Mark and the little store
Driveway freshly snowed
Dogs and art
A man filled with insight
And a warm heart.

Scent of the earth
Viewing through slights
With hashed perception

The cold
Bowling car
Bumpers of snow
Salted pebble road

Below zero search
Pat down
Car destruction
The disappointed,
“I can’t believe it, nothing.”
Unthawing, I mean thawing

Relating self
The no I, me or my game
Frustration and challenge
Darkness with beautiful music

Cold toes and
Back seat to the sleepers

Parallel rectangular city
Mexico’s magic act
Duet of burning ember
His finger tips touch mine
The butterflies surge

His voice alluring,
Finger tips touch
My knee
Thoughts provoke

Stopped in the wind
Cape cod meets the French
Another strawberry flavor.

The wintery sky opens its dawn
the axle is limping.
The awesome mounds surround

Metallic purple enchanting our eyes
Fading into the light, moving
Displaying a spectrum of time
Intense pink spreads among us.

Sleepy, heavy eyes
Nearly home
Name game
The almost forgotten save
The artifact in the day
With a splash of tomato

Dusk’s rainbow appears
With no destination
The beauty evolved,
Four artists
An old new car
and the back roads
This is where I met my love.

Theme Ten: Don't mean what they seem

I search frantically through the apartment, feeling around with my fingers, scaling the length of the couch, around the pillow, under the CD book and the afghan…not here. I check the computer desk, and under papers, and the floor. I take a peak at the kitchen table, leaning in to get a better view. Circulating through to the bathroom, I look behind the stack of towels, the counter, and under my work clothes. Through the closet and to the bedroom, I feel all around the night stand and the floor around the bed… nope not here either.
Opening the bedroom door, I take another sweep through the living room running my hand over the coffee table, and the entertainment stand.
“Where the fuck are they?” I say aloud with frustration, and stomp into the bedroom.
I flip on the light and yank the covers off the bed, shaking them gently. …Nothing. I toss the blankets on the bed, and collect the articles of clothing off of the floor. “This is no way to start a day.”
I return to the living room, plop down on the couch. “You know, glasses are the most difficult thing to find.”

Theme Nine:Words mean something beside..

Orange and kind, he wanders around for another adventure; stepping softly and swiftly through the terrain. Sensing out the danger, and sometimes just imagining it. Forward, to the left, then to the right, and forward again, exploring the options within bounds. Marking milestones along the way, until discovering a cool spot, out of the lights view and nestling in for a while, cozy, comfortable and free of care. Laying in limbo until the hunger sets in, crafting his movements.
Discovering a treasure, and with burning patience, still in his tracks just observing and studying until the moment arrives. With ambitious strength, and inspirational faith, he pounces and sinks his teeth into an elating taste of victory and with instinctual impulse; he proudly carries his earrings to his homestead. Dropping his trophy onto the doorstep, he returns filled with warmth, and gratitude. He sips from his bowl and rinsing the conceit from his tongue. Then he climbs up into my lap and shares his energy.

Theme Eight: Large to small

LARGE to small


I began a painting this past summer, in oils (water soluble). The subject: Paradise Orchids, from a stationary card.

My eyes follow the curves and the shapes of the petals, the stems and the leaves, as I try to capture the image. My eyes refer from the card and back to the canvas; I continue this process until the entire image is stenciled in graphite. I take a deep breath, and release, layer one is finished. I roll my chair across the kitchen floor, and light a cigarette. I view the drawing from a distance, while I smoke and sip from a cold glass filled with spring water.
I roll back across the floor to the easel and dive in for layer two. With my palette in my lap, I squeeze out Winsor and Newton’s permanent rose red, and then some mixing white, each occupying a space of its own on the wooden wax papered palette. With the wooden, paint splattered handle wedged between my fingers, I knife into the red paint. I scoop it off the palette, and plop it onto the white. I knife the paint again and blend the two thick colors into each other, creating a lively pink. In accordance to the stationary, these orchids are more peachy-pink. So I squeeze out lemon yellow and add it to the mixture. I fold the paint into itself, over and over, until I am satisfied with the mixture. Meanwhile, The Requiem for a Dream soundtrack pounds from the living room speakers; but I do not hear it. I watch the knife as it bends, and shimmers in the light, the richness of the colors being reflected into my face, and the aroma of the oil fills my nostrils.
I plop the knife into the orange cup and select a clean flat brush. Dipping just the tip into the cup, and it moistens. I rub the tip of the brush along the peachy-pink mixture, blending the paint with the water; thinning it. I slide the brush gently and smoothly along the inside of each petal and conceal the bright whiteness of the canvas. This pink peachiness is the foundation layer of color. I dip the brush once more into the warm water. Then carefully, attentively paint the inner line of the curves and folds of the petals, until each is completed.
(I try to work evenly through out a painting.) I plop the brush into the cup, and prepare a shade of green. I reach for phthalo green (blue shade) and phthalo green (yellow shade). I squeeze out the blue shade, and then a greater potion for the yellow shade. (Blue is darker than yellow.) I pull the knife from its lukewarm bath and wipe it clean with my mother’s bathroom towel. I knife the shades together. With a thin brush, I paint the stems and the petals with its foundation layer of a vibrant green.
Referring back to the stationary, the background is black. I blend a mixture of cool colors using dioxazine purple, colbalt blue hue, purple red, and phthalo green. Then blend that mixture to a hint of black. So it will help bring out the other colors. I select a narrow brush and paint all the remaining white.
I roll back from the easel with peach, green and a mixture of black along my hand, fore arm and elbow. I wipe it on the red apron my grandmother made for me. I light another smoke, the white has been conquered; layer two is completed.
The whole canvas is wet and stays went for a while, (depending on the humidity). I want to use this to my advantage, so that I can evenly juxtapose the value changes. I create more of the pink peachiness and plop it in the center on my palette. To the left I squeeze out a glob of permanent rose red, and purple red and just dab of purple, black and blue. To the right of the peachiness, I squeeze out, luminous red (which is hot pink) and a glob of white, each with considerable space between. With my knife, I knife the dark colors together, clean my knife, and continue down the line. I blend each adjacent color the next and create the value changes of the pedals. And this begins the painting process. The layers from here on out are countless; I have yet to finished this painting.

Theme Seven Small to larger

Theme Seven: Small to larger.
When I arrived to work on Sunday morning at six forty-five, for my second double in a row, I was informed that we were out of home fries. Eighty-six home fries.
I made it through breakfast with the disappointing news. At eleven, we switched over to lunch. I was then informed that we had run out of potato chips, so all sandwiches were served with a small portion of french-fries. Eighty-six potato chips. One of my customers ordered a vanilla shake, I went to the freezer. The bucket was mostly empty with the exception of what was stuck to the edges of the bottom. Eighty-six vanilla.
Breakfast and lunch were busy. There were two cruise ships in the harbor. I kept on top of things, and felt like I had breezed right through the day with out missing a beat. My apron was stuffed with dollar bills, some fives, some tens, and the change jiggled when I carried out trays of food.
When dinner arrived, we were slammed. There were tour busses in town this evening. I was prepared and ready for the challenge. I felt confident and ready to hustle through the home stretch. We split the restaurant into two sections. I took the left wall, an eight table section, and the fill in waitress took the right wall and middle, a seven table section.
I took drink orders for several tables in a row. I filled cups with ice and the selected beverages and placed them on a large tray. I ran the drinks and took dinner orders. I placed several orders in the kitchen at one time. Then as my section filled, I repeated the process and collected drink orders. My task was interrupted when I was beckoned to the kitchen. “We are out of turkey.” Ashley informs me.
I flipped through my check book to check the table numbers, and returned to two different tables with menus in hand and informed my customers of the inconveniences and offered them something else for dinner. I stood there impatiently, trying to be patient while they ponder other choices. I took the new orders and submitted the slips to the kitchen. By that time, a few of my plates were up in the window. I ran food to two tables. And returned to the cups all lined in a row. I filled the order and ran the drinks. Then I took new dinner orders, and submitted the slip to the kitchen. I took a walk through the dining room and checked on customers with their dinner. I heard the bell ring once, “Number One!” I returned to the kitchen. “We are out of roast beef.”
I exhaled with disappointment, and returned to one of the same tables (that ordered turkey) with menus in my hand once more. I took a deep breath and presented my customers with more disappointing news. The man looked at his wife, reached for his wallet, threw a few bills on to the table as he stood. “That is for the sodas.”
“I am sorry for the inconvenience, sir.” I said as they walked out the door.
That is also a hard experience to have especially during a rush, and when other customers are watching. I do not have control over stock. Because of the interruptions, I had lost my rhythm, I had hungry customers waiting. I returned the kitchen and picked up appetizers.
“May I have plates under my soup?”
“Yeah, if we had some.” Paul replied.
I looked in the window, at their stack of plates, there wasn’t one small plate! My eyes transferred to the dish pit, it was over flowed with cups, straws, napkins and lobster shells. We didn’t have a dishwasher on that evening.
I grab two soup spoons and two drink trays, and carry soup out on trays. In addition to the embarrassment of not having these items, the dinners took longer, because we were running out of dishes to serve food that we did have. The cooks were taking turns swapping off from cooking, to doing dishes. Everything was delayed. I walked through the dinning room. A customer put his finger in the air, and looked right towards me. I remembered what he needed. I dropped off the soups and pulled two bags of oyster crackers from my apron.
Then I walked up to the man. “All I need to do is total your bills and I will bring them right along.”
I had to manually write out the prices and total to bills, four separate checks, for each customer at this four top. I ran their bills, and totaled up the bills for each table that already had their dinner.
In addition to the embarrassment of not having these items, the dinners took longer, because we were running out of dishes to serve food that we did have. The cooks were taking turns swapping off from cooking, to doing dishes. The night went on chaotically, and we continued to run out of items. So now instead of greeting each table and rambling off the specials of the day, instead, I told my customers what we did not have. The fill in hostess had kept the manager up dated on what we were out of, but still she wouldn’t let us close.
So the embarrassment continued. Tables continued to walk out, or gave me time limits to when they were walking out. I made a forty five cent tip off of one table. The eighty-six list grew from just home fries to: buffalo wings, turkey, roast beef, ham, vanilla ice cream, meat loaf dinners, pickles, wraps, dinner rolls, and mayonnaise; which meant we couldn’t make tarter sauce for seafood dinners, nor could we serve crab rolls or lobster rolls (which is a popular fourteen dollar item). Oh, and potato chips twice. I no longer told my customers what were out of, but what they could actually order.
I am so grateful that the season is almost over. I can’t believe that a manager would do that to her help! I should have walked out.
All of these problems steamed from two simple tasks that were not completed; the morning crew needed to prep, and thaw out particular items. And a manager or should check inventory daily to keep the restaurant in healthy stock.

Theme Five Action, Narrative, Story

I stand dressed in my favorite blue jeans, a black short-sleeved top and three-inch boots. I look through my glasses, and into my eyes coaching my self for the long day.
“You will be fine, every problem has a solution, your creative, just wing it.”
I take a deep breath, and exhale.
“The cars are packed, are you ready to go?” I yell to my boyfriend, who’s in the living room. We walk down the wooden stairs from the apartment.
“I’ll meet you there”, I say to Wes as I get into my Lumina. Putting on my seat belt, I take a deep breath…and exhale. We drive around the block, and up to the Village Green. I park in the bus zone, Wes parks in front of me. We walk through the Green searching for my spot, we discover nametags duct taped to the paved sidewalks. Shortly after, we discover mine.
We return to our vehicles to unload and we start with a heavy, eight foot table. Then Wes lugs the canopy tent, and I carry my portfolios.
Wes slides the sleeve off the tent, and begins to open it. It works like an umbrella effect, one person on each side and pull. “Walla,” He says as it opens.
We adjusted the height by stepping on a triangular piece at the bottom of the leg, while pushing in the knob. However, one of the legs was missing the triangular piece (which keeps the leg from going all the way back into itself), and the leg was shoved all the way in! So there it stood with one whole corner on the canopy practically on the ground.
“What the fuck do we do Wes?” I ask in distress.
“Did you bring any pliers?” He asks.
“No.” I look back at the lopsided tent, and my brain fails to work.
“Well, why don’t we unpack everything, and then go back to the house and get the pliers.” Wes suggests.
I look at my watch, eight fifteen. “Well I guess so,” I say, like I am put out with the idea.
I walk back through the park to my car and return carrying my backpack, two easels and a wooden chair that had been painted yellow. Wes informs me that the lady next to us had a tool to pull the leg out. Her husband has gone to the car to retrieve it.
We get the leg fixed, and the table set up underneath the canopy. I turn to Wes, “Where are the sides to the tent?”
He walks over to the sleeve, and picks it up. “It’s empty.”
“Oh, great they rented me a tent, with out any sides!” I say with a ‘to top it off’ attitude.
We string twenty gauge wire on the poles of three sides of the tent. With butterfly clips, I hook the top of each shrink wrapped piece of artwork. I set up the easels, and unwrap all of the framed artwork. Then we move things around to create a space to welcome viewers into the tent.
.
People had been walking through all morning, but I had not paid them any attention until now. I sit behind my table, my comfort zone. My comment book lay open in front of me, and gel prints all along the table. The morning was beautiful, the sky was blue, the sun, shining down on our art show. The breeze is nice it cools me off. I look at my watch, ten forty seven.
People browse through my artwork, and comment, and leave comments. The pieces of artwork sway in the breeze. We sit in the sun, drink our juice, and watch the people, as most of them just walk by.
“Do you feel like lunch?” Wes asks.
I look at my watch, eleven thirty. “No, not really.”
“Well, I am not hanging around much longer. I need to sleep some more before I go to work.”
“I guess so.”
“I was thinking subway.” He suggests.
“Yeah, me too.”
“What would you like?” He asks.
“Umm, let me write it down for you.” (I am very particular.)
Wes kisses my lips, and heads off.
I try to discretely smoke a cigarette. The breeze picks up a bit, and my business cards and gel prints go flying to my left. I place my cigarette in the ashtray I brought, and chase after them. A lady in the gazebo offers me some duct tape. I gladly take it and tape my table-cloth down so the wind won’t blow under it.
I decide to walk to the tent on my right (the lady with the tool.)
“Hello.” I say,
“Hello.” She repeats.
“Lily.” And I put my hand out.
“Sheila.” She replies while returning my gesture.
“I wanted to thank you for your help earlier, I was very grumpy and stressed out this morning.”
“Yes, this morning was stressful.” She agrees. “Is this your first show?”
“No, this is my sixth show, however, my first show outdoors.” I reply.
A browser walked into her tent. “I will catch up with you later.”
I return to my tent, just as Wes walks onto the green. We sit on the grass and eat our lunch. Wes goes home to nap. The breeze picks up once again takes my gel prints with it, I chase them again. I bound the business cards with a hair elastic, and add a second strand of wire at the bottom of the back of the tent and clip the bottom of the work to it.
My father calls,
“I should be leaving tow in about fifteen minutes.” I look at my watch, two thirty three. He should be here in about an hour.
“See you in a bit Dad.”
I am relieved that he will be here, I hate doing art shows all by myself, the company helps. Maybe he will have some ideas to fix my side-less tent problem.
I had run out of wire earlier when I strung the back of the tent, so the pieces on the left and right sides were blowing off, and away. At this point in the afternoon, I was no the only artist fighting with the wind.
The lady diagonal from me (known as Gloria) comes over to assist me. Wit her she brings clamps and a basket. She suggests that we clamp the shrink wrapped work to the wire with them, and lends me a basket for the gel prints.
Everything seems secure now so I unfold an easel and set up oil painting I have been working on and begin to mix paint. The breeze shifts and come through the back of the tent and flips the portrait of Albert Einstein onto his face. I jump from my chair and slowing flip it back over, hoping to find it scratch free and in one piece. To my relief it was. I angle the frame pieces so the wind won’t blow them over. I return to my seat, and the wind swoops under the canopy and lifts one of the legs from the ground. I now hold onto the tent while the wind pulls at the sail.
A man walks up to me, “I have watched you struggle long enough, and I will hold it for you.” I thank him with great appreciation.
I point down to the tent of my left, “That guy’s got the right idea.” I say. He has gallon jugs tied to each leg.
“You could go right up to the hardware store and buy some rope.” The man suggested while holding the pole and leaning on it and the same time.
“Well I live right down School Street. I have rope at home and have plenty of empty jugs at my house.
“Well if you trust me, I will stand here and hold down the fort.”
I think about, it’s not like he is going to steal my artwork. I am running out of options. “Well if you don’t mind, I will run right over.”
“Not at all.”
I grab my cigarettes and keys and run through the park to my car. I race home and fill four gallon jugs with water, and grab some rope and a pair of scissors. I place everything into a laundry basket, and load it in my car.
I return to the Green and park in the movie theater parking lot and lug the basket back to my tent.
I greet him, out of breath and with a smile. “Thank you so much!” I drop the basket, and plop a gallon at every corner.
“Well I have to get going now.” The man informs me.
“Thank you again.” I hold out my hand, and he shakes it.
I tie all the jugs to my tent, and pack up my oil painting.
My father calls again, I look at my watch three fifty four.
“Where are you?” I ask while looking around the park for his van.
“I am still in Bangor I don’t think that I am going to make it. The day just slipped away…” He continued through what he had done today. “I just don’t feel well, and wel’p I’m sorry.”
I sit and slouch further in my chair, my eyes fill with tears. I try to keep my throat clear so I sound okay. Meanwhile a guy that I work with) walks up to my tent.
“Well I hope you feel better, I will talk to you later Dad.”
“Alright, sorry I couldn’t make it.”
“Talk to you later.” I say and hang up the phone. I try to make the tears in my eyes go away. He looks at me, I try to smile, but the tears fall anyway.
“Why you cry?” He asks with his broke English
“My Dad’s not coming.” I wipe the tears quickly from my face. “It is very good to see you ! You are the only person that told me that they would come to the show that actually did. Thank you!”
“I like your paintings.”
“Thank you Krasimir.”
“I play tonight on the sail boat, I must go now.” (He plays the tambura and sings Bulgarian music, on the Margaret Todd.)
He leaves, and again I am alone. The sky is darkening, and the wind seems against me especially. A gust of wind comes out of no where and blows over my display easel. Framed art work meets with the ground, some on its face, and some of the faces of others. The ladies next to me come to my rescue. I pick up the artwork and begin to sob. Gloria puts her arm around my shoulder, pulls me closer to her, and squeezes.
“I just feel so unprofessional, immature, amateur. I don’t know what else to do I am running out of ideas.” I cry.
“Well it is after four, I don’t think that the chamber (chamber of commerce art show) would mind if you left a little early. Sheila and I will explain to them what happened. Go home, get a goods night sleep and try again in the morning.” I take a big breath, and wipe the tears from my face. Gloria helps me pack up my work, while I continue to cry. We lower the tent and take the sail off to prevent it from blowing away during the night. I pack my things into my car, and return home, I lug the artwork the up the stairs and I slip into bed still crying.

Theme Four: Person

A man in his fifties awakens from his slumber and rolls out of bed with his dog. The man robes himself as he makes his way down the hallway into the bathroom, and proceeds to pee with the door partially ajar. He continues down the hall, into the living room to the kitchen.
He opens the cupboard door and selects a mug. Pouring the already brewed coffee into the mug adds some milk and pours in the sugar. He yawns, and his whole upper body shakes. He stirs his coffee, and then leaves the sugar and the spoon out on the yellow countertop. Opening the glass door to the back deck, he let’s Tank out on his leash.
Sitting at what we call the bar, (his desk) in the kitchen, my father lights his morning cigarette. He coughs and hacks with the first drag, then sips from his steaming mug. Then presses play on his answering machine to collect his missed calls. He is the owner of a contracting business; (his twenty sixth year). He built our home with his own hands. He is a business man to the core, he likes to talk money. He returns his calls on estimates and talks to his crew. He has the gift of gab. Sipping from his coffee and chain smoking, he prepares his schedule for the day. Sitting on his stool, he always has a tendency to rub his big toe against the next toe. (Something I have always noticed.)
Then he is off, to shower. He must get out of the shower before he dries off. There always seems to be wet foot prints on the floor from the shower to the closet. Returning to the living room; my father sits on the footstool, grunts while tries to put his socks on, on her pot belly. White shaving cream has gathered in his ear, he wipes it off with his hand and wipes it on his jeans. He places a hat on his bald head, and grabs his cell phone and Tank off the leash. They both jump in the van, for another days work.
My father is a veteran of Vietnam, he enlisted for two years, in the Marines Corp. Unfortunately, and he is a republican and sides with Bush.
My father has always been there to bail out his kids; and he knows a lot of people, or the right people I should say. He is softer with his girls than his son. When I was in high school, he would sign me out of school when I was having a rough day. He’d call my sister and me in sick, when we decided to stay home. (Our grades were good, so that was how he justified it.) For a while, this was a common occurrence with Kati and I. He has an indulgent parenting style, which would make my mother the bad guy, more of the times than not.
My father is a stubborn man, especially when it comes to him, and the way he does things. He likes to do things his way, and he doesn’t have much patience. I think he has passed both of these traits down to his children, more so my brother and sister, than me.
Now when I look at my father, I see an aging man, with a big heart and a hard head.

Theme Three: Scene and Dialogue

The sun is shining into the restaurant; the air is cool this morning. I scan the sidewalks in hopes to find entertainment watching the tourists as they walk by. It is eight in the morning, so the streets are quiet. Down behind the hill I can see the ocean, the horizon is clear. I stand at the hostess station, in my black dress pants and jacket. The restaurant is empty, each table set with a jelly rack and filled with maple syrup sitting on a saucer, fresh cut flowers, (from the owner’s garden) and two sets of silverware placed on white napkins. Elevator type music plays quietly from the speakers in the ceiling.

“Good morning!” I announce to a couple as they walk in from the cobblestone courtyard.

“Two for breakfast?” I inquire.

“Actually we would like some information about your bus tour.”

“Oh, okay, we leave at ten a.m. and two p.m. everyday. It’s a 2.5 hr. tour that takes you up the loop road, it’s like 27miles. You’ll go to the top of Cadillac Mountain, seiur de mont spring, thunder hole, sand beach, otter cliff, and the Jordon pond house. There will be three fifteen minute stops.”

“Oh, okay, how much?”

“Twenty-dollars per person.”

“Do you have a senior discount?” The woman inquires.

“No I do not, but I have a ten percent triple A discount.”

“Oh, we have triple A.” The man exclaims, as he reaches in his back pocket.

“Would you like to make a reservation?” I ask.

“Yes, two for the two p.m.” The man replies. I retrieve the reservation book from the windowsill, and grab a pen.

“Your last name?”

“Uh, Taylor.” His wife announces.

I add their name to the list

“I just need a visa or master card to reserve your seats.”

“Can we pay you now?” He opens his wallet.

“You certainly can. I can take visa, master card, traveler’s checks or cash.” I respond.

He passes me a visa, and shows me his triple A card.

“Your total will be thirty six dollars with the triple A discount”, I confirm before swiping the card through the machine.

Mr. Taylor nods with the okay.

I swipe the plastic through the machine, enter the amount, and wait for the slips to print. Then place the slips of paper on the counter in front of me.

“I just need a signature at the bottom.” As I pass him a pen.

Another couple enters the restaurant. “Excuse me, for just a moment.” I address to Mr. and Mrs. Taylor.

I make eye contact with the new arrival. “Two for breakfast?” I repeat for only the second time so far this morning.

“Yes.” The young woman replies.

I turn and obtain two breakfast menus, then walk towards the sun filled windows, “Right this way.” The hungry young couple follows me. I place the menus on the table.

“Thank you!” They reply. They are one-step closer to their fix of morning coffee.

“You’re welcome. Enjoy.” I say politely.

I return to the hostess station and Mr. Taylor passes me the slips.

“The bottom copy is yours.” I say, and pass the copy back to him.

I pull two tickets from the reservation pile. “Here are your tickets. The bus will pick you up right across the street.” I gesture with my index finger out the front window. (People always look when you point.)

“Well, thank you very much” They each say as they walk out.

“You’re welcome, have fun!” I say with a smile.

Theme Two: unpacking

Unpacking the Journal.

Well the story of writing the journal is filled with stress, let us not go there.
What do I wish had happened? I wish that when I started this course that my computer had been ready with out any problems. This is week three and I am still working on week two as well as week three. I wish that time would slow down, let me catch a breath. Just give me one really long day. I enjoy writing, though I feel I am being rushed and forced to write superficially, so that I can complete each assignment. Writing is an emotional process as well as cognitive. Creativity comes through emotions and time filled thoughts. Also because of the nature of this course, I feel that I am holding back. You talk about being naked in public and writing is a test of character, though the topics I wish to discuss are not just my stories to discuss. Though I am aching.
I have been keeping a journal for almost eleven years now. I think that I will delve into the story of how I became a writer.
I have always been a brainstorm kind of girl. I always have so many ideas and thoughts, and phrases that I want to use. I must break down the chaos and construct complete sentences. I have always been good at run on sentences, and have a chronic tendency to use semi colons, to make up for the run ons. I write the way the thought comes to me, though at least I am aware and try to correct it. Like I said, I have been keeping a journal for about eleven years, but there are great gaps between. There were times that I just grew tired of documenting my days, and repeating the dramatic, chaotic events again. My Journal was my closest friend; I could speak the truth, and figure out problems. There was no one to interrupt me, or criticize my opinion. I have always written from the emotional side.
When I was twelve, I was introduced to poetry on a new level. Mrs. Kellet's Language Arts. I adopted my first pen name that year, Scott Amber, inspired by S.E. Hinton. For seventh and most of eight grade, I attended a catholic school. Well, well! I was rebellious, independent, opinionated, and had no idea what I was getting into. Academically catholic school was good for me. Students in my class, including myself entered a poetry contest, and two, including myself, were accepted for publication. Anthology of young American, Forth edition.(page 127.) In eighth grade, we were asked to write a paper for All Catholic Schools Week. I being the opinionated non-conformist, wrote about how great our school was, with one hundred percent sarcasm. After a few parent/student/teacher conferences and a stack of pink slips (for stupid, trivial things) I was no longer a student at the school. Returning to public school just in time, as a freshmen I meet the most interesting and inspiring teacher, Mrs. Philbrook. She moved me, and taught me how to move my audience. She helped me find my voice and to use my eyes to write. I had my first creative witting class with her. I was also taught by, Sandford Phippen. I wrote some real off the wall, beyond left field papers for his class; but He loved them, though he was critical about my grammar. I still need to proof read aloud, several times. After graduating, I moved north and went to Northern Maine Community College. I took English Composition. I found myself to be in a class with a very closed minded, conservative instructor. She censored our topic range and made me re-write me papers. When I wrote what I though she wanted to hear, she loved it. Toward the end I was able to censor, as well as be open.
Now here I am. I have been trying to take creative writing for three semesters now. I am a bit discouraged that so far it has not been enjoyable, due to the over whelming stress of being behind. Not having a writing program that grammar checks, and hoping that the computer will stay in functioning mode.
Well I guess that was my unpacking of my journal. I don’t think that this is what you wanted. I don’t know where I went, when I wrote it.

Theme One: Journal

Week one: Journal Entries 1-5
Journal Entry 1
I am behind in this class. I am frustrated with the class. My computer, after a week and a half of problems and solutions, is now running, and on the internet. An exciting tool for me, though for not having access to the internet (other than in public places) in several years, I am behind in technology. I feel behind in everything.
The summer is gone and I barely spent any time outside enjoying it. My apartment is so far from organized. I was on top of it, until I began leaving laundry and paperwork where I was finished with it (as well as my boyfriend). My hamper is heaping and overflowed, the bottles and jugs are heaping, I am behind on artwork and other projects. I spend my time now, working three jobs, going to school, chain smoking cigarettes and sleeping. I have fallen into this poor habit of staying up until early hours of the morning and then, "Sleeping the whole day away," in the words of my mother. My biological clock creates my schedule, and I follow it religiously. That is why I work in the evenings, stay up late and forfeit the whole day to my subconscious. Well that is all for now.
Journal Entry 2
I am tired of working, and growing bored with it. Waiting tables is boring, when there isn't a steady flow of customers to attend to, and hosting, that shit is for the birds. Making money takes up so much time. I feel like I am haven't done any painting this whole summer. I have started two oil paintings but neither is finished.
Fall is on its way, the leaves are changing, and it is the beginning of September. The cycles continue and the transitions begin. Our daylight is rapidly decreasing by seven to eight minutes each sunset.
I am curious to experience the fall on the island. I really enjoy the ocean; I wish that the water was warmer. The ocean should keep the island warmer and we will not get as much snow, but I bet it is wonderful down here. Well for now, let us deal with the fall. I hope to find the time to drive around and take pictures so I can photograph the changes. The fall also means the end of the work season and we need to search for winter jobs. The hunt begins again. On that note, I need to go to bed. It is 4:24am.
Journal Entry 3
This year will be the first presidential election that I am old enough to vote in. I hope that more people register to vote, and go to take their one vote opportunity. I remember hearing something like only 50% of the U.S. actually votes. I have been reading some of the paper about Bush and Kerry’s campaign. I sure in hell am not voting for "W". Bush is driving this country into the ground. Everybody’s broke, innocent people are dying. Bush and the Bush administration are trying to create one world government; they are establishing democracy in other countries. Well enough about that, next subject.
I drove around doing errands today with the radio blaring, and singing along to Randy Travis. I am tired of one-way streets and random, seemingly unnecessary stop signs, and pedestrians (use the damn crosswalk!) For the whole summer, 90% of the time I rode my bike. However, then something began to squeak and I was embarrassed to ride through town. In addition, I have grown tired, and a bit lazy, therefore instead of putting WD40 on my bearings, I would rather cruise around in my Chevy, though at this time I am going to cruise on into the abyss, and dream for several hours. Good night. 3:06am.
Journal Entry 4
Today my boyfriend Wes and I went on a picnic. I just got this wicker basket with intentions on going on a picnic. It was warm today, with a September (northeastern breeze), cleaner air than the southeastern winds that bring poor air to us. N-E-ways, we went over to the park and sat down on a blanket on the edge of a baseball diamond. Soon after we finished with lunch, we shimmied down to the sea kayak tours; and went on a sunset kayaking adventure. We kayaked about three miles around some islands. Boy are we going to be sore tomorrow.
We saw a juvenile bald eagle. I really didn't do much to talk about.
Wes's birthday is coming up; I have some small surprises, but nothing big. I am making both, so there is more stress there. Today is Tuesday, his birthday is Thursday. That is a big problem living with him now, I can't work on things when I would like. I have told him that I am kicking him out of the house this week. Tough shit honey, that's how it goes. We really have a healthy relationship. We both have things to work on, but we work well together. We communicate! Well dinner is ready, my belly is empty.
Journal Entry 5
I took my neighbors dog for a ride in the car, we went to the dump and dropped off the trash, then ran more errands in town. I can't wait to be caught up on everything; I have been productive this week. Yesterday I took for myself, and for Wes. It was needed. I work six days a week. This week I got two days off. After he leaves for work, I am going to make his ice cream cake. This will be my first attempt, so I anticipate that it will take some time, but it isn't that difficult. I really like being organized, especially waking up in the morning to a clean house. It seems like we clean, well it seems like I clean everyday.
I am tired of smoking; I feel that a change is in need. I should transform with the seasons, take new steps towards my health. I don't eat breakfast. When we cook dinner, we eat well. I don't have a balanced diet. I stay up too late, eat junk directly before bed, and top it of with a cigarette. Instead of trying to prohibit cigarettes, the government allows it. This is a drug, one that the whole world can purchase legally, (permitting age limit). By providing consumers with cigarettes, tobacco companies make money off the consumer, and passing the consumer down the line. Hospitals make money off smokers. Homeowner insurance is higher to those who smoke (I think, or it is at least a question on the application. All the people that die from smoking provide money to funeral homes, and cemeteries. Cigarettes are partly for economic purposes, but also for population control. Consumers, including myself go to the store and purchase cancer sticks. If I had never started smoking, I would have had so much more money to do things that I wanted and want to do. If I had kept track of the money I have spent on cigarettes this summer I would probably been able to pay some bills ahead of time. The end of the work season is not far from now; so trying to play catch up and get ahead at the same time makes it a little more difficult. I need to call herbal research and take supplements then I my lungs can clean themselves, my nails won't grow with a yellow tint. My whitening toothpaste would actually work. I just need to discipline myself. I don't drink, sometimes I'll have a beer, I don't do drugs, and I have control over these decisions. All I need to do is stop buying them, and don't bum any off of anyone. Well the phone is ringing, going to go to talk to my mom. Later.