Response to Evie Shockley’s poetry reading 4/12/12

            First of all, I found going to a poetry reading was a lot more lively at 4:40 than it was in the Foster Auditorium at 7:30. I think purely because it was generally before dinner time, the sun was still out, and afterwards I had more time to think about what Evie said and do research on her poetry. Where as 7:30 reading I have to do other homework and find it difficult to stay focused.

            But I digress… Evie does a lot of experimentation with form which I really could relate to. I am a very visual personal so not only do the words matter deeply to me when writing poetry but the way it looks on the page I think can really add the poem and its meaning. I wrote a poem for another class about something at the time I was really struggling with – the idea of plastic surgery. Essentially plastic surgery is about remodeling, sculpting, and shaping so I had the idea of morphing my poem into a shape.

Underneath It All

I

was

14 the

first time

I realized that

I didn't have boobs

and when I saw a third

grader wearing a training bra.

And she needed it. I was never

told that my breasts were non-existent,

I was never even tormented by boys who

teased I was flat. Well, that's because Vicki

has a secret for that. I’d look at other girls with

fun bags and boys drooling over their bountiful

body parts but I never felt that I was lacking some

crucial perky problem or missing some marvelous

milkshake that brought all the boys to the yard

because no boy is going to be wishing for

someone with bigger tits if he is  lucky

enough to get me topless. But my

sister, who has been told she

is my twin does not feel

the same way about

her twins and has

a date set for

when she will

go under the

lights and

under the

knife to

be stuffed

with plastic

goo and I

can’t tell

her that

there is no

way I am

letting her

go through

with it. How

can I instead

implant my

thoughts

into her?

Shockley mentioned that she meditated a lot about how race affects her, how it molded her, and what it is going to be like for a new generation, like her nieces, to live in a world that claims racism is dead. She shows this in her poems “ode to my blackness” and “post white”.

            My favorite poem that she read was called “celestial”. It was about the friendship between Marilyn Monroe and Ella Fitzgerald. She writes about things they have in common, even if at first glance you wouldn’t be able to find one similarity. I am very fascinated with what seems to be a new appreciation for Marilyn. That is with the movie “My Week With Marilyn” that came out, the TV show “Smash” which is about making a musical about Marilyn, Megan Fox’s tattoo on her forearm of Marilyn’s face, and of course by being in college I come across countless posters in apartments with quotes and famous photographs of her. Her poem was just a completely different way of looking at her.

            Another poem that I really liked out of Evie’s collection was “Post White”. She incorporated music lyrics and was even brave enough to actually sing the lyrics when reading her poem, which I found very brave and very captivating. And she read a prose poem called “Never After” that used references of Disney princesses and see’s their image in a negative light the way I experimented with one of my own poems I put up for workshop. She quotes Haryette Mullen  “was she enchanted or was she dragged?” in the begging of the prose poem, which I thought was really interesting.

            She also mentioned that she revises her poems constantly, even ones that are published. Like her poem “In Property Behavior” she added the killing of the young boy, from Florida, who was shot because he was black and wearing a hoodie and cops thought his iced tea and skittles were weapons. This really inspired me to return to my older poems and work out a couple of lines or take out some things. 

Nichole Cooley and Julia Kasdorf poetry reading

The poets called themselves “poetry pals” and sometimes even “poetry sisters.” I found this really comforting because sometimes when I am writing I feel so self conscious of my work that I isolate myself. Whereas these two very well established American poet’s shared that they love having partners to revise their work, to inspire them, to keep them going, and to cheer them on when they accomplish something as well. It’s always nice to make that one friend in class who I can always just send over my work to over facebook and will just tell me that it’s really vague and give me great critique. Nichole read older work of hers that stemmed mostly from her experience with Hurrican Katrina. Her parents were stuck in it and her poetry has very clear language with low diction. Julia’s was a lot about small towns, Bellefont to be exact, but her language had a little more flair to it, a little more finesse and irony. Julia mentioned that tomorrow is the first day of Passover and also Good Friday. This doesn't happen often at all and in face one of her poems she read was called “Prospect Park Holy Week”. Both women were extremely inspirational and made me want to go read some Yates and write reflective poetry.  

Protect

       It’s been three days but it feels like 4 weeks have gone by without her.  The last time I saw those big brown eyes and scruffy, mud blonde hair that reminds me of the whole wheat pasta my mom makes me eat, was her waiting by the back door to go out and pee. She had just been fully trained, which was amazing because I wouldn’t be able to smell if he had an accident until my mom complained or I stepped in it. If only I had closed the gate or just gone outside with her, this would have never happened.

            A year after the fire my mom and Nan decided that a puppy would be the perfect solution to all of our fears. I would be able to have a responsibility ally my own and they wouldn’t have to worry about me starting fires because Lyla would be able to smell something burning and bark for warning. “500 dollar reward if found!” I put on top of the signs with a picture of me and Lyla in the center. I printed at least 5 dozen copies and put them all over town. The 500 dollars are all I have saved up, but I’d do anything to get her back. “She’ll show up eventually, Sage. She’s gotta. She loves more than life itself” Tyler tries to tell me to cheer me up by wrapping his arms around me. “I just can’t believe I left the fence open like that. How could I be so careless?” I hide my face in his in his chest. After trying to comfort me for a while, Tyler heads home for dinner. He invites me to come with him but I tell him I wouldn’t be much of a guest. When he leaves I get so anxious that I grab the flashlight and decide to go to the park, hoping maybe she wandered there after I took her a couple of times over the months. I whistle for her and sing her name, “Lyyyyyylaaa.” There is no sign of life at all at the park but I shine the flash light a little further back to the woods and figured maybe she thought it was a fun place to go. I try to stick as close to the trail as possible, but how would a dog know how to do that? It’s starting to get dark out and I am sure my mom is home from work wondering where I am. But poor Lyla is probably more worried about where she is. So I continue to go in deeper. “Come on girl, time to go home!” I scream and throw down my arms. “Where’s home?” I hear a voice say from behind me, a jump and turn the flashlight right towards the direction I heard it from. “Oh my goodness, you just scared the life out of me!” I say with a huge exhale with my left hand holding my heart and my right still on the man’s face. “I am sorry miss, I didn’t mean to frighten you, are you lost?” I tell him that I am not lost but that my puppy is. “She’s been missing for three, going on four days now. But I guess I should be heading home now.” I say walking past the man. “Did you say a puppy? What kind?” “She is a mutt, but mostly a blondish colored coat.” “Oh why didn’t you say so?” The man pulls out from behind his back a blood soaked carcass of what used to be my beautiful ball of life. Tears innately flood down my face and I open my mouth to scream at the horrible image that would scare the rest of my life. My life that I knew would be coming to an abrupt halt when the man dropped Lyla on the ground to cover my mouth and puncture my left lung with a chiseled tree branch. I lie there cold next to Lyla’s mangled body. “I should have closed the fence.” I manage to whisper to her. 

Bruised

She is curled up in the fetal position on the floor of her bedroom closet. Behind her blazers and winter coats she manages to pull her purple pea coat off the hanger and slip in on backwards so that her back is still bare. As she breathes in, her entire rib cage vibrates and she pinches the medallion hanging from her silver chain with her pointer finger, middle finger, and thumb. She lifts it about four inches away from her chest and then presses it back into her skin. Lift and press. Lift and press.

            She wakes up and her lips are chapped. She pushes her self up right and licks her hands to wipe over her fat swollen face to clear off the salt that is now dried on her face. A sharp sting in her abdomen reminds her where she is. Her hand slightly shakes as she reaches for the closet door handle and opens it just enough to she her bedroom. Her desk chair is fallen down and her bed has no one in it. With the pea coat still wrapped around her, she crawls out on her knees. She looks into the long mirror, which is next to her open door. In the mirror she can see him. He is sitting upright on the couch with his head hanging to his side and is still clutching a bottle of Bacardi. She looks around and spots her phone, shattered on the floor across he room. She walks over to pick it up, which seems to still function regardless of the damage. She throws three pairs of underwear; two shirts and a pair of jeans in her back pack and tip toes to the front door. Before she opens the door, she looks back at him, and then into the mirror. She sees a bruise on her chest behind her medallion. She wraps her fist around it and walks out.

Luck

            Driving home back roads in West Chester can be daunting if you aren’t familiar with the area, especially at night. Good thing I’ve been testing them out for two years. It is nothing but vast fields that are only occupied by wild grass, wooden fences, stoned walls and the over population of deer. The roads smooth turns and hills make it almost second nature to speed 60 with the windows down and my high beams on. This is exactly what I was doing on my way home from babysitting my cousins when I got the call.

            'Hey, we’ve done something terribly wrong and need your help.” I can hear Kim say in her voice that is trying ever so hard not to crack a smile. She always had the best voice for prank phone calls but could never keep a straight face. “We can’t talk about it over the phone. Please meet us at the spot where we made our pact back in high school. You know the place.” Before I could ask any questions, she hung up. It was about 11:30 and I knew I could just tell my mom that Aunt Shelly and Uncle Rick stayed out late so why not?

            You can’t tell now at night, but during the day I used to say these hills gave me hope that adventure was still out there. So Kim, Carly – who I automatically assumed was involved in the “we” Kim was talking about over the phone, and myself took ourselves on a nature walk one day. We had no idea where we were going, what trails to follow, or where it would lead us. Just as I was about to attempt to take an artsy photograph of Carly and Kim, through the lens I see a massive, black horse standing in the middle of the trial. I don’t know much about horses, never ridden one, and certainly have never stood that close to one before. But they are a lot more intimidating than Animal Planet ever led me to believe. The three of us completely froze in front of the beast wondering who was going to make the first move. Carly raises her right hand and started to take a step closer. Kim tried to grab the back of her shirt to pull her back but Carly had already walked too far but the both of us felt as if our feet had formed into stone and couldn’t move. The horse snuffed loudly at Carly who was creepy dangerously close. “Shhhh girl, it’s ok” Carly whispered, how she knew it was a girl I will never know. The horse stands still and she holds her hand out for her to sniff it. She then lets Carly slowly move towards her ears and starches them. She neighs and lifts her head up to the sky. Kim and I look at each other, dumbfounded by the discovery that Carly is supposedly a horse whisperer. We turn back and the horse is gone and Carly is crying. We carved, “LCK” our initials into the closest, most prominent tree. We told ourselves that we would get out of this town one day, and run wild as Luck – the name we gave our horse.

            I parked my car next to Kim’s two-door Saturn and called her back to let her know I was here. “HEY! You have reached the phone of Kimberly..” Damit voicemail. I pull the phone down from my ear and use the lighted screen as a flashlight. “Would you just shut up, Kim?!” I hear Carly mutter. They’ve already ruined whatever prank they’re trying to pull on me. ‘Carly? Is that you? What is this all about?” I shout out. “Hey Lil, we are over here.” I hear Carly direct me around the corner. But before I can see my friends I hear an unfamiliar grunt, “Tell her to turn out that bloody light.”  Carly startles me by grabbing both of my arms and I drop my phone. In the midst of her trying to tell me that they’ve done something terribly wrong I find my phone face down on the ground. As I lift up my phone I see little brown clogs, raggedy torn pants on a person that couldn’t be any older than 10 years old  - or so I thought until I spotted a long brown beard with grey spots hanging from the face that wasn’t visible to me. “I told you, to turn out that bloody light!” The little man spears with his large, owl eyes whose pupils are dilated so fully that I can just barely tell that the rims are green. I was about to scream in complete terror until Carly covered my mouth. Carly tries to shhh me like she did to the magnificent horse that late afternoon just 2 summers ago. “What in the world is that, Carly?” I now whisper, “And where is Kim?” Carly then goes on to explain she wanted to come back one more time to see if Lucky would appear to her again and she begged Kim to come with her. As they were walking along the trail trying to call out her name, that little man tied up like a dog to our tree showed up instead. He claimed that Carly and Kim had stolen his beloved horse and the argument led to him biting Kim on the leg who was having weird reactions. Carly managed to distract the little man long enough to have Kim tie him up to tell him what was happening to her. “And that’s when we called you.” Carly says looking at me, hoping that I won’t judge. 

Response to "Problem Child"

        I really appreciated opening the book and having “Notes form the Editors.” I am definitely one to skip the preface but the editors were just completely sincere and honest about how much work it is but because of that it made for a more successful addition. Which made me even more inclined to read through the booklet. Since my two class experiences with poetry in English 213 and peer editing nonfiction in English 50 I have definitely felt more drawn to poetry. Something about the amount of words on a page intimidates me but after reading through the piece “Sweet” (8) I honestly thought it was a lovely short story. The topic was almost cliché but since her story was so different I found it interesting. The way she started with a quote and ended it by tying it all tighter just blended so well with the theme of the intertwined and complex relationship her parents have. I also recognized the poem “Coffee Shop” (14) that is modeled after the poem “Dolor” by Theodore Roethke (I had to do the same exact assignment and its one of my favorite poems called Forgotten). It is just so dark and creepy about some of the most mundane things. Brilliant. The short piece “Sword Play” I thought when I read the index was going to be a poem on “word play” and the title was being clever but it was actually a story about a sword. It was just one of those incredibly vivid memories that seem to have no significance when you picture in your mind but when you put it down on paper the purpose of the scene comes to life. The next piece I thought was really well done was the last poem “To Save You the Only Way I Can.” Every time I have tried to write a love poem, I want to throw up on myself. I just thought this was so simple and original and I completely envy her ability to make up the sweetest metaphors.

            Basically I would say that this book just got be caring about writing again. I was in one of those “I just can’t wait for Spring Break and for work to stop so I can do nothing for days, get bored, and then wish I was back at State College again.” I get in these stupid moods all the time where I completely immobile by boredom with life and I beg myself to do something interesting, meet new people, or pick up a pen and get inspired. But “getting inspired” is the hardest part. But this booklet was actually uplifting. That other students on campus are writing, and writing really interesting things. I think I definitely want to check out a meeting or post one of my poems for this semester. Last semester when we had poetry assignments I actually went to the library and tried to check out “poetry books” that I just felt were so irrelevant to my life. That is until I picked up Julia Kasdorf’s books and a grad student suggested I check out Allen Ginsberg’s Howl and then I watched the movie that James Franco stared in about Howl. These kinds of writings were ones I could relate to and feel moved by. I still appreciate the classics but they are to be obviously honest – are intimidating. With poems written so long ago by older poets it brings me back to “I can’t do that”, “I am not a professional writer” but neither are the authors of these entrees. 

David Gessner reading

David Gessner's non-fiction reading definitely taught me that you have to make your own adventures, go out and explore more. As cheesy as it sounds now reading what I just wrote - it's still true. His exact words, "You need to still find wildness." So much of my time is spent doing school work and when I "relax" I waste time browsing on StumbleUpon.com looking at pictures of people visiting amazing places or people creating things and I envy them. Instead of getting out there and doing those kinds of things I make excuses like, "I don't have the money [time, people, tools... insert other excuses here]." When I do get the chance to check out some of the cool things Penn State offers I want to do more... but if I get stuck in the virtual world rut I find it hard to get out of it. I interpreted David's comparison between saving the world < saving a little piece of it and starting a novel < assigned a writing exercise to get momentum just like going on a cross country road trip < go on a camping trip. Things like this can absolutely add to my experience and momentum for adventurous writing and living.

For Those Who Can Ride in an Airplane

“I’m twenty-eight years old and trying to figure out most days what being a man means.
I don’t drink, fight or fuck but these days I find myself wanting to do all three.
I don’t really have a favorite color anymore, but I did when I was a kid.
And back then that color was blue, and back then I wanted to be an astronaut, an artist, an architect, a secret agent, a ranger for the World Wildlife Fund, and a hobo.
When I was six years old I used to always throw my clothes into my blue and yellow hot wheels car carrying suitcase and run away to beneath the dining room table.
I’ve made out with more girls than I wish I’d had and not nearly as many as I’d like to.
And I’ve been in love three times so I doubt I’m going to try that anymore.
And I spend most days making pictures or thinking about making pictures or masturbating or thinking about masturbating.
And I’m trying to find God everywhere and figure this thing he made called a man.
And the TV tells me its bare-knuckled bombing, so I guess if I had a tank or a missile my penis would be huge.
And thats what I want because thats what being a man means or at least thats what they keep telling me.
My pops, he takes care of us.
He puts the garbage out twice a week.
He drives forty-five minutes to water flowers.
I sit on the bus when a seven year-old boy sits down next to me and asks me my name.
“Anis.” That’s a nice name.
“Thank you, what’s yours?” Quentin.
Anis, do you want to read Robin Hood with me?
So tell me what my fists are writing, Mr. President.
My fingers, they open up like gates when I type and the wind is swinging in the wake, mother fucker.
I lift bridges with poems and forests grow in my mother’s eyes.
“I am looking for God, Quentin.”
“While this world says “fuck you” for trying.
For this world hates your eyes, Quentin.
For they are simple and pure.
And this world hates your fingers, Quentin, little like the stems of flowers.
For not being able to pick up the things you have left behind, because you are still learning to do so.
I don’t drink, fight, or fuck but these days it’s only two out of those three I don’t do, Quentin.
And I fall in love three times, so I don’t want to, want to, but I still do, Quentin.
And I want to find God in the morning, in the tired hands of dusk.
But, instead, I drive sixty through residential streets praying to hit a child so that they may stay forever night and forever red and forever full of light and crayons and simple outstretched limbs…
..Trying to pick up way too much way too fast, forgetting what it means to be a person.
In a world where egos are measured with tabloids, where automobiles are like morals, where beliefs are like naps, you leave them behind when somebody touches you.
And in a place where oil takes precedence over life, I find myself sitting on a bus, when a little boy floats down like fresh water, carrying a book I used to read and asks if I want to see what he sees if only for a little while.
Then asks if I want to give to him what I see if only for a little while, then says to me he’s going to show me the world.
And starts moving his fingers beneath the words, not always noticing what is written, sometimes skipping whole sentences, sometimes skipping whole lines…
…because his fingers are moving fast and I wanna tell him, “Slow down, Quentin.
You can see it all if your finger whispers on one word.
Slow down and hold what you see just a little bit longer.”
For in a world of fast faces, I’m looking for God everywhere, trying to figure out a little better this little thing he made called a man.”

For Those Who Were Never Taught How To Ride A Bike

I am nineteen years old

and most days I find myself trying

 to find what I want to be.

I made lists of majors that I would

hope my parents would agree.

Which looking back is bull,

when I was a kid I don’t remember

trying to find approval.

I told my teachers, Sunday preachers

and preschool crushes that I will

rule whatever the sky touches.

But the Lion King told taught me t

hat even the King couldn’t touch the Shadow Land.

What I didn’t realize then was that the darkness

would cast over my entire potential future dream plan.

I loved lemonade stands in the summer,

my mousey blonde hair dyed green by chlorine,

how all the neighborhood kids would come to our backyard

to jump on our trampoline but sometimes that's all

they wanted from me or so it would seem

because they would never let me sit near them

on the bus ride to school so I would sit with my best

friend Therese and we would cry sometimes

because those girls were so mean.

Kids can be so god damn mean.

This summer, where now I find myself instead

enjoying lifeguard stands

or more like who stood on them

with sun kissed tans, my hair died blond by bleach,

and sun bathing wishing I were at the wildwood board walk

bare feet, hung over on the beach because

I never ate enough and drank too much.

But I was inside a hot sweaty gym with bicycles lined up

with training wheels

and it feels awkward here

not like any other place I volunteered.

You see I’ve only worked with inner city kids

who taught me how to dance so I showed them

how to read or I would go to homeless shelters

to give food and feed empty mouths but they’d preach

and fill me up until I was full of their knowledgeable meal.

Here I was told that these teenaged boys and girls

had never ridden or rode. Never could try training wheels.

I met Brandon. Tall, lean, black boy from the suburbs

but be a real kid and ride a bike is something that he had never done.

He didn’t talk much, but he would not stop singing.

Bebe dadadoooooooweeeeeeeeee ride bobbop turrrrnnn.

Talking wasn’t his trade, like how my mind

couldn’t keep

attention to pre-calc

until my stomach rumbled and I realized

I don’t have lunch until t

wo more class periods and it would fade.

Brandon was not much different

from you and me.

But different these days,

no it’s always been this way,

different is bad.

Don’t be thinking I am the one that is

thinking the sad

 thoughts – its true.

Kids are told they aren’t tall enough,

smart enough, pretty enough,

cool enough, good enough.

Well, enough is enough

and that shit don’t make us tough.

It just adds to the baggage of stuff we lug

around on our heavy shoulders wondering

who will come along one day smooth our edges

while I thought I had it rough

and then all I was just a bit

annoying and fat,

imagine the stress one kid has to

compress in one day if god forbid he had autism.

I am nineteen years old trying to figure out what to be.

I look into Brandon’s eyes which I will only keep attention

for a short while but you see, I hope he doesn’t notice

the people who stare –its just not fair-

because his rare young  soul isn’t so different

from you and me.

Just waiting for the perfect

opportunity to be

set free.  

Horoscope poem - Gemini

Star Crossed Destiny

“Out of all

my children, you are most like me.

And that isn’t always

a good thing.” – my father

Souring                         The weight           

       through                  of

            the                        iron

    given                                heavies

glacial                                   my heart

time                                   of

 capsule,                             passionate

   rapidly                               pursuit

       racing                              unbeknownst

    through                                  where

   the obstacle                                     to

    laid before                               place

Gregarious                          Mercurial

     gravitational                    toxic

          combustion                    mayhem

           of electricity           of layers

          swiftly                  just below

      absorbs                       craters left

    like                                 on the surfaces

magic                                          crying crust  

                                

His sister said

my father,

just like his father

possessed the element

of charisma.

CNF draft

I wrote my essay out of order with titles for each scene. I decided to now put it in chronological order.

The Introduction:

            My name is Molly. I have an alcoholic, addictive, and bipolar brother. And I am an enabler.

7 Months Ago:

            Sunday brunch in the commons in East Halls was my favorite. There is nothing that an omelet with everything on it and extra cheese with tatter tots on the side could not fix from the previous blurred out weekend. Or so I thought. I place my tray and silverware on the assembly line to be cleaned, put my hands under the automatic hand sanitizer, and walk downstairs while I wait for my roommate and two of our guy friends to do the same. My phone vibrates and “Home” is calling for the second time this morning. “Hey Mom, how are you? Sorry I didn’t pick up earlier I was eating,” I ask thinking this is her weekly check up phone call. “Um well… Molly, your brother is in the hospital.” I run outside and hide behind the building and ignore my friends phone calls that are wondering where I went. My mom continues to tell me that Patrick punched through the basement window and is now in surgery to get his hand reconstructed. The glass cut through a major artery and may never regain function in his hand. After I assure my mom that I’ll be fine I then call my sister, “There was blood, so much blood, Molls. I thought he was dead for sure this time.” My sister is a nurse, and for her to be scared into hysterics about the amount of blood she cleaned up made me spin.

Sleeping:

            I wake up with my hair line and pillow case soaked. Crack the window open. As hard as I try to think of anything else I still keep having the same dream. My brother is in a casket and I get up to speak at his funeral but when I step in front of the podium, I have nothing to say. No fond memories, no reminiscing on our relationship, no speech about what kind of person he was – nothing. I didn’t obtain that knowledge. I don’t know who Patrick is, what he likes, or remember anything pleasant about our lives together. Just us being in the same house, forced to live with each other because we were related and still dependent upon our parents for shelter. Sounds barbaric.

Not Sleeping:

            My heart pounding, my breath quickens, my forehead is damp and saliva builds in my mouth like I am going to get sick. I close my laptop and lay my head down. I feel nervous – but for what? This anxiety is completely foreign to me. I just want to close my eyes and hope this knot in my stomach will melt away. But if I sleep, I will dream and they will be nightmares.

Leaving School:

            At the start of my 3-hour ride home to Philadelphia, the driver hands me her bowl, “This will help, I promise.” I grip the end and watch as the flames lick the herb. I breathe in, release my thumb, and suck in until it hits the back of my throat. I pull my lips off the glass but keep breathing in as much as my lungs will expand and I let the smoke escape the car while I roll down the window. My mind races faster than it would in any panic attack I have ever experienced and I don’t speak a word the entire ride. I think I convinced myself to be pissed off at her so that I wouldn’t be so angry with myself.

3 Days Ago:

            The sun will set behind other apartment complexes in about an hour, but we are only going to be here for a few days so I will soak up as much sun as I can get. My mom, sister, and I took a flight a few hours before my dad and little brother so we could go food shopping and get the place set before our first session early in the morning. It’s going to be the first time I see my brother since his first rehab in February. Which was the first time I saw him since Christmas. Which was the last time my dad tried to admit him in Mercy Fitzgerald Hospital for the third time. “What time is it?” My sister rolls over on the towel and I am guessing rhetorically asked me because I had fallen asleep. Mom gets up, takes her towel and heads for the door but struggles with the lock. My sister tries but can’t get it. I try and the key will turn but is refusing to unlock the door. The three of us are in Fort Lauderdale, Florida with three beach towels, stuck outside our apartment. “Try and see if any of the windows are open around back, Mom,” my sister creatively and desperately suggests. I walk backwards and look up to the second door balcony that my sister and I looked out of to see the view when we first arrived. To my satisfaction, it was open. I put my foot up against the newly planted palm tree and both hands on the side of the apartment. “Bridge, hoist me up like in cheerleading.” I yell to my sister. She cups her hands and I put my other foot in them and I can just get my grip on the edge. “Mom! A hand please?” My sister screams because there is no way her little self can support all of my weight. My mom copies my sister’s body position with my right foot and together they try to lift but it is still too high. “Just stay under me in case I fall,” I manage to say as I lift my entire body with my hands holding on to the railing and lifting up my legs up and over. I was left with scrapes and broken skin on my left leg and hands and the door never again got stuck.

            I accompany my mom on the ride to the airport to pick up my dad and little brother while Bridget stayed to order pizza and hop in the shower. When we are about to turn in into Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport I get a sharp pain in my stomach. Not motion sickness I usually get when I read in the car, but more like as if someone was taking a welded knife and puncturing my stomach for 30 seconds and then releasing. I don’t remember the car ride home much except for that I taking deep breaths into a plastic bag while my dad rubbed my back. My mom didn’t even park the car but instead pulled up to the door so that I could run up stairs. The second I opened the toilet bowel seat, everything that I had eaten in the past 8 hours was being released. This process continued every hour until 5:30 am. My sister slept in Michael’s room in fear I was contagious and so my routine vomit wouldn't disturb her slumber. No one bothered to wake me for the morning first session until noon I woke up to my phone ringing. “How are you feeling?” My mom asks in a sympathetic and helpless tone. “Well I haven’t puked since earlier this morning, which is an improvement!” I try to sound up beat so that my mom is convinced I am feeling better. I didn’t take a plane ride down to Florida just to miss seeing Patrick on the first day when we only have 3 days with him.

            I arrive to a room full of older people that looked like parents, one young adult male, and two other girls that looked around my age – if not younger. “How are you feeling, Molly?” a woman with white and black checkered glasses, hefty set, and tanned Florida skin asks me. I answered with a fake smile and nod. “Well then, I guess it’s time to see your addict.” When Patrick walks through the door he is tan and thin and his hair grew out just a little since February. We all hug him and are told we can’t sit next to our relative who we are visiting. All of the other addicts go around and tell the families what they have learned about the other people. I learned that Matthew is 18 just like me and already diagnosed as an alcoholic but is considered a leader in the group, that Ryan who is a handsome kid with a sister my age was shooting up heroine has trouble telling the truth but has good commentary, and that in the last three months no one knows anything about my brother. In fact, Matthew said he walked into Patrick’s room to be astounded that his family photo revealed he had siblings. Let alone 3 of them and that all of them were coming to Family Reconstruction Weekend. Time is up and we now have to say goodbye to our family member’s until tomorrow. Patrick leaves and I cry. I cry for the first time in months.

2 Days Ago

            “Why don’t you tell her why you don’t have a relationship?” My brother’s therapist asks my brother about me in front of the entire room of addicts, their families, and my own. Shocked by the question, but more embarrassed by the question or perhaps more scared of his answer I turn completely red. I look at Patrick and he just stares at Greg. “Why don’t you tell her?” Greg is now pointing directly at me. Patrick lifts his head and but doesn’t look me in the eyes, just in my general direction. “I never knew you wanted a relationship with me. You never seemed to have any interest…” my brother is abruptly and sternly interrupted, by his counselor, “Bull Shit!” I feel as if the entire room is looking back and forth from my face to his to see whose reaction is more interesting. “Tell her the real reason or I will.” What reason? They have actually talked about me before? Why is this about just about me? Patrick’s eyes are glaring at Greg’s. I think he hates this attention more than me. I look directly into his dead eyes. “I didn’t like you. I never liked you. I chose not to have a relationship with you.” Before I could admit I think I was better off being ignorant of that fact, I am distracted by snorting and blubbering coming from across the room. I am quiet flattered that the studded belt wearing and hair jell using 20 year old pot head would feel this bad for me that he would start sobbing for my sake. “Would you like to say something?” Greg asks Robby. From that point on I was forced to listen to a little boy trapped inside a mans body cry over the fact that his dad denied his request to spend a week together to reconstruct their relationship. His douche bag of dad who wore tight, obnoxious colored v-neck t-shirts and went fake tanning. His dad who walked out in the middle of the session and never came back.

The Breaking Point:

            After another morning of half ass listening to a motherless and yet tragically beautiful cocaine addict, Meredith, try and convince her boyfriend she was through with her infidelities or hearing Brian’s little sister cry that she doesn’t want to see her only brother left go down the same road of her now deceased sibling – Davita, the family therapist, wakes me out of a fog, “Alright, lets take a 10 minute break.” It is 10:03 and if I try to walk through the doors at 10:14, Davita will make me or anyone who is late walk right out that door and sit outside until the next session. This method is to prove if you can’t listen or obey rules, how could you expect your addict to?

            It’s like the time my parents brought home a pitbull from the SPCA (thinking that giving Patrick a responsibility that it would somehow cure him because my mom read in an article once that it helped soldiers who came back from war recover. Can’t blame her for trying, it did feel like I was walking on a mind field every time I came home). We would have to stand over our dog’s food and pretend to eat it, to show him we were the alpha dogs. Instead we are now training out addict to behave.

            I don’t hesitate for a second to head straight for the woman’s restroom down the hall, open the first stall I can push open, and lock the door. I let out a long, dramatic sigh. It seems like the first seconds I have had alone all weekend. Instinctively, I unzip my newly bought pair of yellow, high wasted shorts (we were going to spend the last day on the beach and thought I’d look nice) and sit down even though I didn’t have to go. I place the palms of my hands over my eyes and it isn’t until I dig my nails into my forehead and run them through my hair that my eyes are finally uncovered and to my complete anguish, discover a rose pedal stain on my underwear. “SERIOUSLY?!” My voice cracks. “Molly? What’s the matter?” I didn't even hear my mom had entered the bathroom. “Do you or Bridget have a tampon on you?” I say with a grudge against Mother Nature herself. For the time being I rip a piece of toilet paper out of the dispenser and fold over twice and place it as a temporary pad on my underwear and pull up my shorts and zip them up before I hear a rip. “You have to be kidding me,” I say with almost letting out “fuck” in between that sentence before I realized my mom was still in the bathroom. I look up to the ceiling because I feel that stinging feeling I get right between my eyes that travels down my nose, so I tighten my jaw try to and hold back the tears.

            I am now in a bathroom stall, trying to squeeze into my older sister’s two sizes too small jean shorts, at my brother’s rehab over 1,000 miles away from home.

           

Forgotten

I have known the excruciating emptiness of glass,

Far beyond any repair, meaninglessness of baseball cards and bed sheets,

All the pain in picture frames and paintings,

Abandonment of a destroyed ottoman,

A neglected windowpane, cabinet, photograph,

The forgotten scribbles on drawing pads,

Desolation of dried up deodorant, a blue lamp, baseball caps,

The never-ending success of disregard and dust.

And I have seen the imprint of a body,

In a bed that is home to no one, anymore,

That haunts –quite intentionally—all who pass by,

Walls stained where frames hung. Green eyes

Stare but never grasp, the fear of his return.

                                                            -Molly Mullen

On Procrastination

            As sit at my so-called dining room table in my college apartment on my Macintosh computer, I stare at a blank word document. A white canvas waiting to be filled with Times New Roman size 12 font by my diligent typing and selective thoughts that will flow through my finger tips  - if only I get started. But my Microsoft Word shares a screen with three different Internet tabs: Facebook, Blogger.com, and Google. My mind is equally stretched thin by also reserving data space for my long list of “To-Do’s” before the weekend, how many hours left until I can take another dose of my decongestant, and while still seeming to be interested in my roommate’s complaints about her team she was put for next weekend’s Beer Olympics. How is it already 1:45 AM?

            Procrastination is a battle of the mind by attempting to justify excuses by occupying one’s self with other activities. Because you see, before starting that 30 day work out challenge - need the day to catch up on rest so you start the 7^th season of Entourage. Before picking up playing the piano again you might as well check your email real quick and make sure you didn’t miss any of our notifications on Facebook – just to get it out of the way first. Procrastination is about defeating yourself by thinking about how you think. No organizer or time management app you buy will ever make you get the things you wish you could finish actually completed. The reason so many of us wait until the very last minute to buy Christmas presents or write that weekly response for class is because we let ourselves cave in to choosing what we want right now rather than what we should do for the future. That wanting, yearning, feeling of instant gratification will never go away. I will always want to start drinking on Wednesday rather than start studying for my exam on Friday, but sitting here now realizing I would be better off sleeping than writing knows the benefits of getting things done in a timely manner. The trick is to think about what you know now is right, but that the you right now is not the one going to be tempted or making the decisions – it is the future you. See, right now as I am currently reflecting on how I failed to not procrastinate I am disappointed in myself. What I should have done was accepted that the future me was going to give in and if I did I was going to hate myself for it (which I do).

            Being productive has nothing to do with will power or desire – it is about playing a game within your mind. You must out smart yourself from checking if someone has commented back on the Toddler’s and Tiara’s video you posted on Facebook but instead fulfill your New Year’s resolution of stretching for 15 minutes a day. You will constantly make yourself empty promises by running to the HUB at 11 o’clock at night to print out paper’s for a class tomorrow when you know you should be starting your rough draft on a paper due next week. Procrastination is an idea everyone has to work around and live with on a daily basis. It isn’t something that we can completely delete from our lives but over coming it by mastering your mind is a skill only the present you can teach the future you, you choose to be.

The Fabric of Life

            “Molly?” I heard the big voice say over the intercom. “Molly Mullen, your mother is looking for you and worried. Where ever you are, come out please.” The big man voice said and had to spoil all the fun. See, I had found the best spot in the whole store. I peeled back the clothes like a curtain and step into a spinning colorful and textural world of magic. As people came in and browsed through items of clothing, I’d sit in the center of the clothing rack and watch. They’d look, spin, stop, look. Look, spin, stop, look. Look, spin, stop, and sometimes dig inside the piece to check the price tag. If the number was low enough, they’d place the hanger around their hand that was piling up other possible purchases. My mother almost tried to put me in one of the children leashes that you see parents holding at Disney World.

            When it came time for my birthday, it had to be themed. This particular year I decided to have a tea party. All the neighborhood girls would put on their Sunday best but no ensemble could be complete with out its accessories. Straw hats with a ribbon tied around the rim, dainty white cloth gloves, lace socks, and classic black Maryjane shoes would do just the tick. I, of course, would add an extra touch with my mother’s pearls, clip-on Pretty Pretty Princess earrings, and to make the outfit –a silver and diamond bedazzled tiara. But before we cut the cake I made an outfit change into my star spangled bannered bikini to show off to everyone (my birthday is on Flag Day after all).

            When I was able to pick out what I was able to wear to school, I always chose a dress. My favorite was a hand-me-down from my older sister. It was a pink, spaghetti strapped dress with a built-in, white frilled t-shirt underneath. The straps met in the middle with a silk rose bud on the front and my mom tied them together in the back since I still had a little more growing to do. It was snug until it hit my waist and it flowed out enough that when I spun around it twirled with me. That is, until my mom put me in private catholic school. I was furious that I was forced to put on dress that everyone else would be wearing. At least it was a flattering baby-blue cotton, pleated jumper and not plaid wool.  It wasn’t until I showed up to the bus stop and every 3^rd grade girl was wearing shorts. Heinous shorts, made out of the same color and material as my jumper but which bunched in the front and made them resemble the boys. I later found out they did this so they’d get picked to play flag football. I hated it. But eventually caved in to their appalling customs. Up until the 6^th grade and all the girls were required to wear skirts (Thank God).
            Every year for Christmas my mom’s dad would always give us gifts like Alaskan scented candles and or trivia book with animal facts. He finally caught on that we were trained to fake a reaction like, “Oh! Pop-Pop, how’d did you know I always wanted a Paint By Number of Big Ben?” when we unwrapped his presents. When I was in 7^th grade he gave me a year subscription of Seventeen Magazine. I made a booklet of cut outs from my favorite articles, hair tips, makeup guides, and clothing advice. I would make lists of new products to try when my mom made a CVS run and would thoughtfully premeditate my outfit for next weekend’s school dance. I was even voted “Most Likely to Become CEO of Seventeen Magazine” in my 8^th grade yearbook.

            Although I was not yet seventeen, I soon felt that I had outgrown their style. I replaced turning the pages of the magazine with running my fingers through the clothing racks with my eyes closed to just simply feel the fabrics. Finding sheer cheetah button downs at T.J.Maxx or the perfect balance of Megan Fox and biker chick leather jackets in Lloehmann’s became a weekend hobby. I would collect new and old, cargo and lace, leather and turquoise contrasts alike.

            I quickly began to crave more originality than I was getting from retail stores and stumbled upon small boutiques and antique malls near me. The personal touches of the beading on a velvet belt or the uniqueness of pearled rings that are adjustable to any finger and rusted engraved necklaces. I am drawn to pieces I collect from stores that I feel a connection to. I think as if they had a life before me and I am resurrecting their relevance. Or perhaps it is the articles of clothing I choose to wear that give me life, that give me a new story to tell. 

The Girl That Almost Got Away

As the sun went down the temperature dropped, just enough to have to wear a sweater out –for June, is the winter season in Peru. It was the weekend and a very festive time of year. Stephany Flores, a 21-year-old native, was out with friends at a Casino. It was there in the midst of gambling and risk she took a chance on a tall, handsome European.

             Jordan van der Sloot, was originally from Holland and vacationing to get away. Unfortunately for Stephany, she wasn’t aware what he needed to get away from. “Want to head back to my place, I know more games we can play,” van der Sloot whispered to Stephany and on an adventurous whim she accepted van der Sloot’s request, where they would continue to test each other’s luck.

            Gambling wasn’t the only thing Stephany wasn’t too lucky to stumble upon that evening. She came across something on Jordan’s computer. A face. A young, beautiful face that looked oddly familiar. She wasn’t an actress, but she definitely was a well-known American. “What’s that you found?” Jordan asked. When he looked at the screen and saw what Stephany had been looking out, it was as if he completely transformed. What had been a charming European all of a sudden became a man full of lethal rage. It was then when Flores’ realized whom that face was and why Jordan had it on his computer. That face belonged to the front page of every magazine, the face of a girl, Natalee Holloway, who went missing on a trip to Aruba when she was 18. And the man she had thought would make for a fun night was the number one suspect for her death.

            His eyes pierced her with fierceness, “Who do you think you are going through my things?” he screamed at Flores’. Stephany didn’t know what was the truth, but knew she’d be gambling a lot more than chips if she were to stay in his room any longer. “I think it’s for me to go,” She said walking towards the door. Van der sloot was too large of a man to dodge around and too strong escape his grasp if he was to ever get a hold on her. But he got her. “Get your hands off of me!” Flores screamed as loud as she could before he got her in a chokehold and hit her so hard that her neck snapped. And there lay Stephany, as if asleep, as if she was just another young woman dreaming about the life she had ahead. The life she was about to begin. 

ARTICLE:

SOURCES:

http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-504083_162-20006709-504083.html

http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/Media/joran-van-der-sloot-confession-girl-intruded-private/story?id=10853209#.TxcK6GD2XAc

Romeo Romeo Wherefore Art Thou My Glass Slipper?

            The most flawless article of clothing I own is right now delicately stuffed and properly packaged in my closet at home (for I would never place a toe in the kitchen of a Beaver Hill apartment or basement of a frat party with these). It is a pair of Steve Madden circa 2008 black heels. Suede runs down the sides to meet at the peep toe and wraps around until it kiss the kitten heel. They are simplicity with slimming and sleek sophistication. They are, in fact, the first pair of heels I ever bought myself. When I slip these little bad boys on, it’s as if they were crafted to hug every curve and arch on my foot, like a new pair of underarmour socks with spandex-stretch technology. I used to think they fit, as if they were my very own glass slippers in my own little fairytale.

             You see, I bought them to go with this black lace, heart shaped dress that so elegantly flowed right above my knees (because I went to a strict private catholic high school) that I was going to wear to my high school’s fall dance, “The Harvest Moon.” My date was a boy whose stars were crossed with mine ever since he played on the same t-ball team as my older brother. Well, at least I had always thought so. He didn’t agree until the summer our families decided to save money and rent a house at the Jersey Shore together and we were forced to spend two weeks together in the same house, in very tight corridors. I was just out my freshman year of high school, expecting an exciting summer that I could brag to everyone about at the lunch table once school started up again, like the articles I would read in Seventeen Magazine.  While he was just looking for a break from his on going baseball season. I hadn’t seen him in years, but I think the fact that I had grown into myself from the chubby, annoying friend’s little sister to now a decently proportioned and almost attractive teenage girl took him getting used to. After playing footsy under the dinner table and catching eye glances at each other in our bathing suits for a week he snuck down stairs to my room after I went to bed to knock on my door. I woke up puzzled by who was standing at my door before me and asked, “What are you doing?” and he, who looked as if he could be asking himself the same question, responds, “I just had to see you again.” Even though I had spent almost every waking moment with him, his family, and my own – my hopelessly romantic, untouched teenage heart was officially his, which I completely surrendered to him after he leaned in for our first kiss.

            Fast forward a month of sneaking kisses behind closet doors and stealthily changing his name in my phone so no one would ask questions, the gig was up. My own version of one of Taylor Swift’s loved sick songs was about to get ripped to shreds because my mother caught me whispering into my phone late one night talking to him and thought it would be a “smart” idea to tell my brother. And just as Juliet Capulet's cousin, Tybalt, was fiercely defensive and quick to draw his sword on Romeo, so was my brother too easily satisfied with kicking the crap out of my Romeo—leaving him with two black eyes and bloody elbows. But unlike any other logical boy, my Romeo didn’t care. He still wanted to be with me. Even though our families now resented our relationship, my brother still had pent up anger he’d be willing to release on him at any chance he got, and all of my friends thought I was crazy for dating a senior boy –we thought us against the world was weirdly romantic in a doomed, emotionally crushing movie kind of way.

            So these shoes were meant for that night under The Harvest Moon and us. The black suede well suited for I was a rebel now for not listening to mom and dad, sophisticated because I was cool enough to date an older boy, and a short heel was a safe call to make sure I wasn’t too tall and could dance in them all night long. Thankfully our fates weren’t as morbid as the original Romeo and Juliet but just like that perfect night, our dysfunctional puppy love relationship had to come to a closing. I have since upgraded to paten leather stilettos that are abused and scuffed from trucking all across Penn State’s college campus just like my hopes in finding a new Romeo. Ironically enough, I only find my Steve Madden black-peep toe-kitten heels appropriate for funerals now.