Jamie's Blog

He was Caesar, and we, his faithful mob. We lifted him onto our shoulders, chanting his name with steely purpose. “Colland! Colland!” I screamed, my voice falling apart like brittle crust. Still, I mustered a last cry, “Colland!” as my larynx melted.

I was a clown, adorned in bright, heart-speckled genie-pants, with hair like Don King after a spin dry. “I heard that it’s legal to marry moose up there,” I joked to my fellow passengers. “Polygamy is not a laughing matter,” retorted Bear, she grinned though, and held me tighter. Aside from the Bear, there were the Brothers, riding up in the front, and Shit and his sister in the back, with us.

The story of Shit’s name is that, one time, we were all having dinner, and his sister randomly asks, “Did you know that shit floats? I know because I’ve swam next to it.” I replied with flaming wit, “Don’t call your brother shit!” Beer came frothing out of collective noses, and the name stuck like a tail onto a donkey.

We were heading from Philadelphia to Toronto in a huge Dodge Ram, shining and fearsome, a Himalayan yeti. It had green felt-like upholstery and a television in disrepair. The only way we could get a signal is by linking arms and wearing foil hats, creating an ad hoc antenna. It was an eight hour trip, but felt more like two. My head nodded up and down as I faded from asleep to awake and back again some hundred odd times. So, I slept, and, when time and I met again, we had arrived in Toronto, the jewel of Canada-that great maple nation. Our purpose was to embarrass Colland at his graduation ceremony at Toronto University-”it’s the Harvard of Canada,” he had said to us with pride.

We stepped into Toronto with tourists’ wonderment. For Bear, it was the first time she had been out of the U.S. Her eyes grew wide and she bared huge teeth seeing the titanic skyscrapers, digital billboards, and hoards of boutiques. We met with Colland and his family to drop off our belongings, arrange accommodations for the weekend, and fall dead asleep for the night.

When we awoke the next morning, we discovered Colland had left instructions for his father to take us on a walking tour of the city. Although we were not so enthusiastic about this, still feeling sluggish from our long car ride, we had too much respect for the man to argue. He led us to Chinatown, so that we could exchange our currency and take in some of the local culture. Street vendors pedaled knick-knacks and t-shirts to tourists, and earthy smells diffused from apothecaries selling traditional Chinese medicines-strange coiling roots, preserved fruits and sap, even dried bumble bees and seahorses. The smells choked me, and reminded me of my grandmother. I lived with her when I was younger. She would cook a nauseating, bitter medicinal broth that got into my clothes and skin. “It helps keep my bones from aching,” she’d said to me. I would hold my nose and say, “but it makes my nose ache.” The tour ended four hours later, to the great relief of my toes, heels, ankles, and calves. We returned to our lodgings and prepared for the next day’s ceremony.

We waited a few hours outside a tall, domed building at the University, where the graduation ceremony was in process. The campus was pristine. Cement pathways led orderly through the University, with bronze plaques and monuments dropped here and there. Freshly mowed, emerald lawns splashed the scene with life. We gambled our time and money away playing cards. I make sure I have a poker deck at all times, in case I am forced to wait for something-anything. It has prevented boredom in more than one movie theater line and restaurant-table waiting area. One of the chief curses of youth is impatience.

The over-sized doors of the building opened and throngs of graduates rushed out to meet flashes, flowers, and hugs. “Colland!” we yelled as he exited. He grinned at us briefly before greeting his parents with proud embraces. “Cheese!” “Cheese!” “Cheese!” We posed for and shot photo and photo, until we exhausted our exposures. Then we lifted him up onto our shoulders and carried him around the campus, yelling “Colland! Colland!” We delighted as his face grew a bright shade of red. Old men in suits and mothers congratulating their daughters turned with disapproving glares as we marched through the campus, but we didn’t care. We were young and we celebrated as long as we were able.

I teetered on the edge of a precipice so elevated that winds buffeted my hair and almost ripped my clothes off. I wore soft cotton pajamas, the kind with the detachable behind. My collar, loosely buttoned, snapped and whipped off my body. Were my clothes trying to escape the height? Jesters with rainbow hats grinned and played on my shirt. They didn’t seem to suffer from any acrophobia. Sweat dribbled from my chin and caught into the wind. It was the cold sweat of fear, not from the elevation, but from the confusion.

‘Where am I ‘

The wind knocked me over, off of the cliff, and I fell. I fell, and I fell, and I fell. A great maw, as if of leviathan, engulfed me.

***

I awoke in my bed, soaked in fear. Through the lattice and panes behind, the first tendrils of dawn greeted me upon waking like the fingers of a great beast. Twisting my waist, I propped myself on two shaky arms to peer out the window behind me. It was cracked a hand’s width, and I wondered if the ferns outside had had nightmares also, for their dewy gloss mirrored my terrified forehead and its sweaty sheen.

A potted daisy rested on my sill, cream-colored petals and a burst of saffron, like the morning sun. It is believed the daisy’s name is a corruption of day’s eye, so called because the head closes at night. I wondered how alike little boys and flowers named daisy are. They both slept, but did they both dream

Whatever the differences between daisies and boys, I was sure that if flowers dreamed, it was of rivulets, soil, and other buds, which seemed preferable to tornados and falling from great heights. That childish flower that slept by me never had terrorizing nightmares. Each night I found myself in some unknown locale, atop a cliff overlooking nothing. Fear beaded off me in salty drops. Then I fell, dying only to be born again through a crucible of patience and perspiration.

I contemplated the meaning of the dream, even in that age of cartwheels and swing sets. I worried about being in places that weren’t familiar and so I always kept close to my mother when walking through department stores. I never ventured farther than a block from my home, playing in my backyard when I craved air and activity. Worse still, I milled the idea of my death as only wizened old men are expected to, as if I might count the hours until the Reaper, whose scythe would glisten like my watery eyes. Some nights, I’d lay still, eyes twisted open their red veins invading from the corners, staring at the great maw of oblivion as its jowls howled open. My eyes fed streamlets that cascaded down my face, falling, falling.

Death wasn’t some fantasy of Stygian fiends or Elysian delights; it was that great void that loomed like an obsidian starless sky. The end wasn’t the credits after a movie whose story you knew must go on; it was the finale of a life that was doomed to end before it began. Death was a dreamless sleep. It was the absence of gods and the zealots who so devoutly worshipped them. The afterlife was a coffin, bones, and dust. The tears that fell were like lives, each falling to their demise, into the emptiness. For them, there would be no phoenix fire, no Ragnarok, no kingdom come. People told tales of an ineffable beyond where I’d find peace, but I would’ve taken anything, peace, pleasure, or pain. The belief that there was anything after would’ve eased my grief.

***

The cliff, barren and still and leading to lilies, was my world again. Still, the same gusts whipped newly-grown hair.

‘Where am I ‘ the question came again almost immediately, as it had an unknown number of nights passed.

Confusion twisted my innards, wringing fear in droplets from my glands. The same clothes, rainbow pajamas with laughing clowns, adorned my thin body. This time I realized where I was, in an illusion. I was knocked off my heels and over into the void, knowing no harm would come to me. Suddenly, my brilliance flared, ‘I won’t die here!’ I became a halo of endless light, and wings burst from my scapulas in a flurry of feathers and petals. I sped vertiginously, tripping the light fantastic through a heavenly ballroom. I sailed over land and sea, and saw the world as only gods did-omnisciently.

***

The sun nudged me softly, rousing me that morning. Proud rays slid through my Venetian blinds and rested on me in bars. One of those shining strips tickled my eyelids, cascading warmth throughout my young frame. Suddenly, the world burst to sight and I pushed myself up to arch my back, stretching out any tenseness that rest had neglected. Then I laid straight again, and smiled.

‘That was some dream,’ I said to myself.

I grinned at the scene playing in memory. Usually, waking sundered the images. The pictures were torn and tossed like confetti, and I would grasp at the drifting pieces. When once I had managed only a few handfuls, now I retained the whole.

This time, the dream had been different. I had made it different by accepting the illusion. Once you accept illusion, you can shape it to your will. Although the acceptance had little effect on my conception of death, it galvanized a lethargic spirit that had lost its purpose. While the ultimate result of life still haunted me spectrally, the dream had reinforced my ability to cope. Above all certainty of pain, there was the ability to cope, being that pain and the nightmare were both cerebral creations.

Another creative writing piece, this one is freshly typed, no editing, etcetera. Leave suggestions if you want, I may not listen to them (since this won’t be graded harshly).

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Their eyes fell on him like the daggers they withdrew from hidden folds of their tunics. The Liberators waited for Caesar to turn his back, delivering a long oration he d prepared the night before. Silently, suspiciously, their glances went from one senator to the next, deciding that if any of them dared interfere with their judgment, he d be the next to fall under their blades. They d met the night before and discussed their plans.

It must be tomorrow, on the Ides. The senate has not convened for months, so an opportunity may not arise again for some time. We will all be together, at Pompey s Theater. There is strength in numbers my brothers, and we will need all of our fraternal strength to free Rome, said Cassius.

He speaks the truth, brothers. Too long have we stayed our hands. We are his pets, so often do we bow and mew at his heels. I refuse that role. He is no god, this Caesar. He is a despot who spits on the Roman ideal of democracy. He is a mere demagogue, playing off the fickle, unwashed masses, delivered Trebonius.

Now, now, brothers. Stay the sharpest tongues lest we forget the glory he has brought Rome. He has increased our borders two-fold. Rome has not seen a general such as him since Romulus, said Brutus. He was of noble height and breadth, seven and a half heads tall with a chest four to five heads wide. His hands were rough and calloused soldier s hands. And his eyes, oh his eyes gleamed like steel unsheathed, yet they were deep as philosophy.

How likely for his heir to come to his defense! You, who we found suckling his fortune, jeered Junius. He picked his teeth with a glimmering knife, spitting crumbs on the stone floor.

Careful brother, Brutus said the word with sardonic disgust. I support this endeavor with all my will and resolve, he said more seriously. I swear by the pits of Tartarus, if you question my loyalty to the cause, your throat will gurgle as your vitality drains away.

Junius retreated at this threat. Brutus was by far the better legionary. He bowed apologetically, making a vow to Aries that he would slay Brutus before the next moon.

They continued to discuss the plans for several hours that night. Brutus left the house, grasping each of his brothers. He walked out into the street, and into the side alley. Making his way back home, he kept in the shadows and back streets. Paupers laid against hovels in this impoverished area. I am doing this for all of you, he whispered to the night. He hoped the west wind would carry his words to the Roman populace, sleeping and dreaming in the night. When he had finally reached his door, miles from where he began, he looked at the silver moon. It looked to his eyes like the glistening blade of an executioner s axe.

Now, quickly, while his back was turned, the Liberators overtook him. Caesar whirled at the sound of mutiny, just as a blade slid into his abdomen. He lurched at the pain and his eyes lost focus. Malicious, base, vile conspirators! he screamed. More men fell on him with stabs and slices. He collapsed onto the floor in a tangled mess of bloody robes. Looking at the villains, he whispered their names, as if to curse their existence, You dare betray Caesar A hex on you all! Cassius. Trebonius. Junius. Then he saw the last. You too, Brutus, my son! the last name he said warmly but shocked. He couldn t understand how Brutus could have done this to him, who he treated like his own flesh. He closed his eyes and condemned them all to torment in the lowest circles of hell.

Farewell, father, Brutus whispered. He would not relent now, despite Caesar s condemnation. It is for the good of Rome. He walked away from the limp corpse, cleansing the blood from his saber.

My mother’s brows were tattooed above her eyes in broad black strokes. In my salad days, when she was my greatest love, I thought her lips were tattoos as well those rigid pink strips as they were locked in a perpetual frown. It was only in recent years that smiles were no longer strangers; for that reason, she is more beautiful than ever despite the increasing wrinkles. When I was younger, she did smile sometimes. I would tell her, I love you mom and hug her, and she would grin and say, no malice intended, If you really love me, you will learn Chinese. Perhaps I should’ve tried harder to learn my ancestral language. I would say, at least I can speak English well , hoping that would compensate for my deficiency. She felt I was forsaking my culture, and therefore rejecting a part of her.

My household was one of intermittent yelling with instances of torrential tears and brief periods of calm. My mother afforded us escape by taking my brother and me to the ocean. She wouldn’t usually swim, just watched us from the beach in a one-piece that hid scars of childbirth. In those times, we were her only joy. She was happy seeing us splash salt at each other and scoop sand castles, having lived through a war-torn childhood herself. One time, I ravaged my brother s sand creation with cruel steps, and he stumbled to my mother, snot and tears starting to ooze. She encircled him, scooping him up with giant arms, and scolded me in a stern, but loving tone. I pouted that she was always taking his side, and she said to me, I wouldn’t have to take his side if you would just leave him alone. I couldn’t fight her good sense, and I muttered an apology to her and my brother. I hugged her and said, I love you mom, and pulled my brother back into the water.
Despite being an ardent momma s boy, I made little attempt to do as she asked and learn Chinese. Instead, I would hug her and say, I love you mom, and when she replied, If you love me, you will learn Chinese, I would dismiss it as if I hadn’t heard. As I ripened, my own sense trumped hers. I resented her use of my affection as a bargaining chip. I refused to call her bet, and folded instead; eventually, I tired of the game. I didn’t hug my mother anymore and I stopped telling her, I love you mom. Still, when I imagine her, she is smiling and trying to impart some good sense on her cruel son, and when she thinks of me, I imagine I am hugging her and saying, I love you mom.

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WRIT220, Creative Nonfiction Writing, teaches how to draw from life experience to write compelling and interesting stories. What I didn’t realize was that it is perfectly okay to embellish or even fabricate experiences to enhance the narrative, as long as the meaning or essence is retained. Can you pick out which parts of this story are technically untrue

Shadows
Catch me if you can
Subject me to your plan
Just be sure its me you seek
and not the man I was last week
Chase the blood and bone
you and I, alone
Chase the who I am,
Not the shadow of the man.

The following is the first draft of a piece written for WRIT220. It is approximately 1000 words long, so I realize most of you will not have the patience to read it. If you don’t read it, don’t comment. Otherwise, comments and criticisms are greatly appreciated. Some of the hypens should be dashes instead, and were mistakenly converted.

Meeting Her

Her hair was frizzy, a nest of locks. She climbed down the steps of her dorm in a sweater I didn’t like, smiling with huge teeth. It didn’t matter that I didn’t like the sweater. She could’ve been wearing anything, a top hat and a purple tutu or cyan spandex and an orange muumuu. She could’ve been wearing anything or nothing-well, the nothing I would have to work for, I suppose, but it would be worth it. I returned the smile and waved with big eyes. A piece of my lip slid between my teeth in apprehension. That’s how I met my wife.

As unbelievable as it may sound, Al Gore introduced us. Yes, that’s right, former vice-president, almost president if it wasn’t for those lousy Saudis, Al Gore. How’d it happen? Through Al Gore’s most infamous contribution to the world, the internet. Actually, a mutual friend introduced us in a chat room–as cliched as it sounds. I threw a short hello, as netiquette required, and we joined the conversation already in progress. Later, that same night, she messaged me for a more intimate talk. I suppose she thought my emoticons were charming. Or perhaps she was seduced by the hehe’s that appeared in every other sentence. I lusted over her big, voluptuous words and steaming, hot wit. We talked online every night that week, enraptured by each other’s words. Through glowing terminals, we touched glowing hearts, caught in a world wide web of attraction.

There are two things about talking to someone online that make it different from a face-to-face conversation: 1) you have a longer time to think about what you want to say and 2) you can’t see the person you’re talking to. Instant messaging is therefore the great equalizer, as a godsend to the slower, more gruesome among us. Thanks to the internet, the dull Quasimotos have a chance against the handsome Cyranos. Online, there is no body language, no gesticulation, no charming grins, and no batting eyelashes. With keyboard-speak, you can always claim that the last idiotic thing you said was a joke, or brag about the box of puppies you rescued from a flooding river, without worrying about keeping a straight face.

So, we said things to each other we might not have said in person. “I know four different languages,” she claimed, “Mandarin, Spanish, English, obviously, and Swahili.” “Swahili? Wow, you’re incredible! But, I’m surprised you don’t know French. I could give you lessons, if you’d like.” See? What kind of person would use such a ridiculously awful line in person? No one but the most socially inept losers out there would even attempt. In an online conversation, however, it’s completely conceivable to get away with such triteness.

More than flirting, our conversations drew feeling from emotional wells. Our relationship was a flash flood-and the possibilities washed over us, carrying us away. The emotional dams that we all build, the safeguards against naivety and gullibility, against what might shatter our hearts, were succumbing to infinite pressure. We discovered profound places inside us we thought were myth, like Troy unearthed. Our families, desires, and dreams flowed together like tributaries into a river. “How do I know everything you’ve told me is real? How do I know that what you say you’re feeling is real? How do I know that this isn’t all some cruel game that you’re playing with me ” she poured, her voice quivering. It had been a week since we first talked, and the first time we had been on the phone together. “I can’t know myself, if I truly feel what I feel.” “So, what am I supposed to think?” the doubts rained in her mind and out her lips, and I grasped for an umbrella. “Meet me. Meet me tomorrow–I mean today,” it was early in the morning, around three or four, “Meet me, and then you’ll see it in my face when I tell you.” “I don’t know… I’m leaving for home at around seven,” her voice quaked. “I’ll walk you to the station. I’ve been telling you how I feel. Let me show you. We won’t really know if this is all real until we meet.” She succumbed.

The whirlwind week would climax with that morning. That morning she walked down her steps, and we smiled to each other. She walked with steps like fingers tapping keys, quick, but awkward, and I stumbled behind her. My stomach was coiled. My back was moist. My feet were unsteady. My throat was arid. My mind was deserted. I was a mural of blank, barren tundra, lichen, and cow skulls. She led me to her room, and we sat on rickety desk chairs, I wondered if I was safe–if ever I could be safe. We sat down and we smiled at each other. When our eyes met, they courtesied, and began a gentle waltz, then a spicy samba. All was well, we talked like we had before, only now, we watched each other, and we danced. I watched the corner of her mouth stretch into a crooked grin when I said something I thought was funny. I watched hair fall to curtain her eyes, and brush her cheek. I wanted to brush her cheek, stroke it with a sable hair in a mixture of raw sienna and gamboge. Laughter and joy splattered the walls and now I was a shimmering substance that even Pollock couldn’t fathom–we were the artists, and the subjects, and she was the art.

We parted that day on a train platform, like one of those romantic, zebra flicks that ladies seem to gush over. I turned to leave her, promising to see her again. I had a good feeling about the day, but I wasn’t sure if she felt as strongly about me as I did about her. I intended for the hug to be short, so I tried to release her within seconds of beginning. She held me closer to her and would not relent. Not that I wanted to be freed–I just didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. I squeezed tighter–it said everything that I didn’t know how to say. Grizzled men murmured on their benches. Business women in power skirts hurried passed with rushed glances. We didn’t care; we were young, and wanted to celebrate–despite the danger.

It’s amazing to me the intricacies of the human mind.
Product of eons of evolution or of a hand sublime?
The choice matters little when your brains starts to boil,
when you soil your new blouse, when your hours into toil

The problem with life is the stress that wears on you
sadness is a great factor, as well as anger too.
So how to we, as adults, go about venting angry feeling?
Meditation, love, friendship, they all assist in healing.

But Na, you’re a special case, special in the head,
you wear a happy face, when a sad one fits instead.
so when you’re feeling down and you want to explode,
remember everything you are as a great sight to behold.

Remember greatness passed, and greatness yet to come,
remember your loving heart, looking forward to waht you’ll become.
Remember friends long gone, and all the love exchanged,
remember lovers lost, and partners you harangued.

Think of sweeping sky and the orange of the dawn,
think of cutesy bunnies and doe-eyed, nimble fawns,
think of mothers with their babies, and toddlers’ gurgling speech,
think of foreplay then hot sex, right on the evening beach.

Consider the poverty-stricken, who long for a warm bed,
consider freezing vagrants, who tomorrow will be dead.
Consider weeping families, whose loved ones have been lost,
consider lonely businessmen, and the price success has cost.

Understand that all are different and no one is the same,
understand that despite all the problems, there might be none to blame,
understand that people are understanding, understand that they are not,
understand that you have to try with everything you’ve got.

So Na, the next time you’re angry, like you want to make a fist,
remember, think, consider, and understand, what your fighting with.
In my opinion, there are much better things in life to be,
then envious, vengeful, jealous, and especially angry.

Clay molded by fingers grand
came unto earthly, dire sand
wandered, lost and muddled
once naked now clothed, still, befuddled.

How dost humbled now, the pair,
cast out from their utopian share.
But what and whose plan did inact
causing them to break their pact?

Oh nemesis, genesis of misfortune,
schemer, crusader for ethereal portion,
one who wrights with malignant intent
cannot destroy the design that is meant!

Fine threads do easily break,
that is how the fiend builds his stake,
but a thread himself cannot see (,a member he),
the tapestry of infinity.

So weasel all the while,
and over an inch gain a mile,
because a mile cannot compare,
to the endless, all-knowing, almighty stare.

Serpentine compatriots with their click-click-click ambush good sense and defy amicable intentions.

They slither and creep, cross the deep ravine–ravenous hunger. Hunger. Hunger–the proof of breath and dew.

Slippery crags, beware! Dashed against my mind. Competition is hardly an idea. Cling to my safe side.

Here’s a poem I wrote to Lisa awhile ago, but forgot to give her… hehe sorry darling!

Talk of love and devotion is sweet and all
But if you recall
There are many ways that love can fall.

It seems often these days
That couples in the gushy phase
Court through crazed acts and grand displays.

Despite this show, divorce is high.
Prenuptials? They’re on the rise.
If we’re still together 10 years nigh,
Would you or I be surprised?

The simple truth is that in the sea
There are other fish for you and me.
Some are decked in colors–tropically.
Some are notable for their intelligence,
Some are simply excellent.
To what extent is this relevant?

We could live without each other
It’s a fact that lies uncovered.
In fact it’s plain for both to see
Do I have to spell it for you? A. B. C. D. E.
It’s elementary as the alphabet
Do you got it yet?
Have I been too delicate?

There’ll be those who want me or want you
But they can only hope that’s all they can do.
Because despite all else, we picked each other.
For us, there IS no other.

More will come, but we are more than love,
More than care, more than wealth, more than life.
We are dreams,
The summer downpour,
The rolling grassy green hills,
Everything and anything beautiful in a way that can only be felt.

We belong together.