For those of you losing faith in humanity:
On Tuesday, one of the kids in my acting class was hit by a car. Well, he's not really a kid. He's a senior and one of the nicest kids I've met at Syracuse. He's shy, sometimes a little awkward, and besides that, I know absolutely nothing about him.
When he got hit, he was unconscious. No one in the crowd around him knew who he was. Coincidentally, one of the girls in my class was walking by at that exact moment. She doesn't know him well either, but she recognized him, and stopped to help give authorities some information. Then she rode with him in the ambulance to the hospital and stayed there all day and made sure that all of his professors knew about the incident when she got back to campus.
This was honestly one of the kindest things I have ever heard anybody do for someone who was maybe one step up from a stranger.
For those of you losing faith in humanity: you should meet Paige.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
She Writes Poetry?
I stand by the open window,
open, although the rain hits my bare skin
where my clothes hang loosely with heavy weight,
and I, too weak to fix them, stare into the night.
Eyes wide, hopeful,
outlined by dark circles that count the sleepless nights,
I wait. Alone.
Shivering, trembling,
but determined to wait.
Ever loyal. Ever obedient.
Hair stands at attention to the cool wind's whispers,
up my arms,
around my neck,
down my spine.
My eyes are watering from the chill,
from the fatigue,
from the hopelessness.
Branches snap at the wind's hand.
Once so strong as part of a tree,
now fragile.
No match for the might of the storm.
Lightning crashes.
Warmth creeps down my arms
in the shapes of his fingertips.
His comfort envelopes me,
his scent strong.
I begin to give in to his warmth.
His arms hold mine tightly to my sides
and his fingers intertwine mine
connecting us.
Slowly, I begin to step back from the window.
To sleep again, to dream again.
To feel again.
Then I see a glimpse of you.
You've finally come.
The shape of your silhouette,
I'd know it anywhere.
I pull away from him
back toward the window.
Toward the lonely comfort of the open window.
But he doesn't let me. He holds on.
He holds tighter.
I start to slip. He holds tighter.
Sometimes the comfort of the rain
is stronger than the warmth of the sun.
But not this time.
open, although the rain hits my bare skin
where my clothes hang loosely with heavy weight,
and I, too weak to fix them, stare into the night.
Eyes wide, hopeful,
outlined by dark circles that count the sleepless nights,
I wait. Alone.
Shivering, trembling,
but determined to wait.
Ever loyal. Ever obedient.
Hair stands at attention to the cool wind's whispers,
up my arms,
around my neck,
down my spine.
My eyes are watering from the chill,
from the fatigue,
from the hopelessness.
Branches snap at the wind's hand.
Once so strong as part of a tree,
now fragile.
No match for the might of the storm.
Lightning crashes.
Warmth creeps down my arms
in the shapes of his fingertips.
His comfort envelopes me,
his scent strong.
I begin to give in to his warmth.
His arms hold mine tightly to my sides
and his fingers intertwine mine
connecting us.
Slowly, I begin to step back from the window.
To sleep again, to dream again.
To feel again.
Then I see a glimpse of you.
You've finally come.
The shape of your silhouette,
I'd know it anywhere.
I pull away from him
back toward the window.
Toward the lonely comfort of the open window.
But he doesn't let me. He holds on.
He holds tighter.
I start to slip. He holds tighter.
Sometimes the comfort of the rain
is stronger than the warmth of the sun.
But not this time.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
A Little Bit of Object Writing?
So this was a creative writing exercise where you write a short story for about ten minutes at a time. Only ten minutes. They can be fictional, but are supposed to be based on your sense memories of the object. I don't know, I thought it was pretty cool.
Pencil:
The tapping of the point matched the ticking seconds on the clock. My heart was pulsing a beat that seemed to control the speed of the tapping. I nervously bit the eraser, tasting the gritty pink crumbles on my tongue. As I rested my head in my hands out of frustration, I could smell the yellow paint used to cover the pencil that was engraved with “Dixon Ticonderoga.” Freshly sharpened, the smell of wood pierced through the paint. I let my mind wander and placed pressure on the pencil as I drew spirals on the side of my test each one becoming darker than the next. I felt the weight of the small writing utensil as it rested heavily in between my thumb and my index finger. I gripped tightly to its hard edges and tried to focus, but my slightly sweaty hands slid down a few centimeters and it became difficult to write. I heard the scratching of everyone else’s thoughts being put down into symbols on white-lined notebook paper, forming coherent essays, as my mind buzzed with scattered thoughts. That tiny object seemed to become unbearably heavy beneath the weight of my unexpressed words.
Ice:
My fluttering eyelashes tried to make sense of the blurry scene that was in front of me. The smell of the crisp winter air cut through my nose trying to revive my other senses. I felt the damp, coldness beginning to seep through the back of my body, slowing bringing me back to reality. As my vision cleared, the slow whiteness deeply contrasted the instant black I had experienced moments before. Pain shot through my spine, the only part of my body I was fully aware of. Soon, I was able to feel the soft touches of snowflakes falling on my face as I lay perfectly still, face-up on the patch of ice. I could barely hear my friends’ voices over the rush of the wind. It felt as if the ice was sticking sharp needles in each part of my body as I regained full consciousness. I breathed heavily in through my mouth, feeling the dry, bitter, icy air, now very aware of the sheet of ice that was not giving my body weight any slack. I lay there helpless, unable to speak, my entire body frozen. I slid my body across the smooth surface, gritting my teeth in pain, causing me to fill my lungs with the icy winter air. The ice grasped onto my exposed skin, scratching it as I tried to regain feeling in my fingers and toes. Everything, inside and outside of my body, was frozen.
Guitar:
I was sixteen when I got my guitar. I picked it up and traced my fingertips along the smooth, dark wood, perfectly polished. I smelled the wood through it’s shiny treatment, which was also slightly hidden by the aroma of the small music shop on Penn Ave where it was purchased – a trace of old, worn-down carpets and the stale cigarette smoke that the owner always had on him. The harsh strings seared themselves into my vulnerable fingertips as I began to play. They vibrated, leaving their painful mark behind in the form of calluses. The instrument spewed dissonant chords, as I had not the slightest clue of how to form actual music with it. I ran my fingers up the strings hearing the spine tingling screeching sound. As I slipped my fingers around the cold, silver tuning pegs, I was able to feel each curve of the guitar. The curves of the instrument fit like puzzle pieces to my own body. I could taste the dry air in the practice room in the back of the shop where I sat perched on a padded stool. I tasted my own tongue as I bit hard in concentration as the owner’s voice rang through my ears, “There you go, sweetheart, now you’ve got a chord.” The sound grew richer as I dug the strings further into my fingers, thinking that if I cut in deep enough, it would make the instrument play better.
Pencil:
The tapping of the point matched the ticking seconds on the clock. My heart was pulsing a beat that seemed to control the speed of the tapping. I nervously bit the eraser, tasting the gritty pink crumbles on my tongue. As I rested my head in my hands out of frustration, I could smell the yellow paint used to cover the pencil that was engraved with “Dixon Ticonderoga.” Freshly sharpened, the smell of wood pierced through the paint. I let my mind wander and placed pressure on the pencil as I drew spirals on the side of my test each one becoming darker than the next. I felt the weight of the small writing utensil as it rested heavily in between my thumb and my index finger. I gripped tightly to its hard edges and tried to focus, but my slightly sweaty hands slid down a few centimeters and it became difficult to write. I heard the scratching of everyone else’s thoughts being put down into symbols on white-lined notebook paper, forming coherent essays, as my mind buzzed with scattered thoughts. That tiny object seemed to become unbearably heavy beneath the weight of my unexpressed words.
Ice:
My fluttering eyelashes tried to make sense of the blurry scene that was in front of me. The smell of the crisp winter air cut through my nose trying to revive my other senses. I felt the damp, coldness beginning to seep through the back of my body, slowing bringing me back to reality. As my vision cleared, the slow whiteness deeply contrasted the instant black I had experienced moments before. Pain shot through my spine, the only part of my body I was fully aware of. Soon, I was able to feel the soft touches of snowflakes falling on my face as I lay perfectly still, face-up on the patch of ice. I could barely hear my friends’ voices over the rush of the wind. It felt as if the ice was sticking sharp needles in each part of my body as I regained full consciousness. I breathed heavily in through my mouth, feeling the dry, bitter, icy air, now very aware of the sheet of ice that was not giving my body weight any slack. I lay there helpless, unable to speak, my entire body frozen. I slid my body across the smooth surface, gritting my teeth in pain, causing me to fill my lungs with the icy winter air. The ice grasped onto my exposed skin, scratching it as I tried to regain feeling in my fingers and toes. Everything, inside and outside of my body, was frozen.
Guitar:
I was sixteen when I got my guitar. I picked it up and traced my fingertips along the smooth, dark wood, perfectly polished. I smelled the wood through it’s shiny treatment, which was also slightly hidden by the aroma of the small music shop on Penn Ave where it was purchased – a trace of old, worn-down carpets and the stale cigarette smoke that the owner always had on him. The harsh strings seared themselves into my vulnerable fingertips as I began to play. They vibrated, leaving their painful mark behind in the form of calluses. The instrument spewed dissonant chords, as I had not the slightest clue of how to form actual music with it. I ran my fingers up the strings hearing the spine tingling screeching sound. As I slipped my fingers around the cold, silver tuning pegs, I was able to feel each curve of the guitar. The curves of the instrument fit like puzzle pieces to my own body. I could taste the dry air in the practice room in the back of the shop where I sat perched on a padded stool. I tasted my own tongue as I bit hard in concentration as the owner’s voice rang through my ears, “There you go, sweetheart, now you’ve got a chord.” The sound grew richer as I dug the strings further into my fingers, thinking that if I cut in deep enough, it would make the instrument play better.
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