Week 6, Prompt 1 of 3

I sort of slipped naturally into the second person for this one.  I don't know if it works, but once I started, I didn't want to switch gears (except that first paragraph at the beginning).

27. The safest place in the world....

I'm thinking of all the safe places one can be in the world.  Fortresses.  Secret government underground bunkers.  The maple tree that was designated "safe" before the game of tag started. My earliest memory of "safe" was hiding under the covers of bed.  From monsters.
It is a well known fact that monsters invade the rooms of children at night.  Under the bed and in the closet are the biggest known culprits, although the occasional risk of one bursting through the bedroom door also exists.  Parents are fools if they think that there aren't any monsters; they seem to lack the necessary radars to detect these things.  But then again, these are people who don't realize that Leopard can talk to you, or can't understand why you need to have 20+ stuffed animals on your bed every night.  Obviously if you leave any of your stuffed friends out, it will hurt their feelings.  So, while they have the added benefit of chasing away dark shadows whenever they enter the room, ultimately they can't be trusted to help you in times of duress.
Landlocked on your tiny bed island, there are few places to run.  So you must resort to the safety of deep under the covers.  Shielded by the warmth of thick blankets that meld to your shape, you are able to go undetected by things with dripping teeth and large dark bodies (or even worse, the formless ones that would envelope you like some sort of demon mist, given half the chance).  It is true, things like the nightlight set low at the foot of the bed do help, but when the overhead light goes out and shadows are thick like dark water around your little boat of a bed, you have few options left.  The light switch, the arch nemesis of these monsters, sits just across the room.  You might be able to dash over to it and flick it on in time to smite these hunkering beasts, but do you really want to take the risk?  What if you wrestle with your covers for too long, stumble as you run?
In the end, all that is left is to build an impenetrable shield of cotton and synthetic fabrics around your small body.  How do these things prevent monster attacks?  That's unimportant, we don't need to dwell on that.  Dwelling on such minor details, and the further panic that results from doing so, is exactly the kind of thing the monsters would want.
In building this blanket shield, it is crucial to seal off all spaces.  Blanket edges should be tucked under feet, the top part pulled under your arms, your hunched form covered completely.  The downside to such a thorough sealing is, of course, a lack of oxygen.  Leaving a slight opening near the face is ideal, but such laxness in security can result in a monster reaching in.  So it's quite important to open this space intermittently.  To save that little bit of air in your blanket fortress when going to bed for the night it's best to take a large gulp of air before covering yourself, to make your bubble's supply last that much longer.  Never, ever lay face up - much too exposed.  Face down, back arched like a bridge, taking very small breaths to conserve limited oxygen; this is best.
You can hear monsters come in when you hear the thump, thump, thump!  An adult might point out that it's actually your panicked little heart, creating this thumping noise, that has led you to believe the steps of monsters are approaching.  And of course the more panicked you are, the faster the heart, the faster the monsters seem to be approaching.  But analytical thinking isn't part of the night routine.  Survival is.
It could be said, perhaps, that your imagination as a child was a bit "overactive".  Take, for example, the babysitter whom you completely managed to creep out.  Mom remembers this, but you have forgotten it by now.  As the babysitter came to tuck you in, she noticed you seemed scared.  Upon asking what the matter was, you said in a four year-old's chilling voice "they come, they come in the night and they touch my hair."  Needless to say, Mom found a very freaked out babysitter when she came back home that night.
The night light, the blanket shield, for many years these were necessities for nighttime slumber.  Until one day, tired of feeling terrified, you decide to fight back. On a gloomy afternoon, you squeeze into the closet, shutting the doors behind you.  It's dark and absolutely terrifying.  Monsters might as well be eating you right now, you're so close.  But you're tired of being afraid.  You think "if I can't beat them, join them."  And you stand there, pressed in by hanging shirts, stumbling on the shoes under your feet, and wait.  And then, still shaking but feeling like you actually may have accomplished something, you open those dark closet doors, and step out into the light.

Week 4, Prompt 2 of 3

Week 4 Prompts, #2

14. Wishing? Lying? Dreaming? Dancing? Boxing? Cooking? What is writing like for you?

Writing is a bit like a grab bag for me, I think.  It depends on the day that you ask me.  Outside factors come into play.  Am I "in the zone" (a.k.a. not constantly checking e-mails and looking up funny things as a means of procrastination), do I have a lot on my plate, is it a topic where I can gather passion to me as I write and then build upon it, like a bird gathering material for her nest?  There are ups and downs for me that factor into it, but I suppose if I had to focus on just one image, I would compare writing with fishing.

Yes, fishing seems truly apt.  You fling your line into the water, watch your float go "plop!" and then bob along the surface, and you sit down.  And you wait.  You could wait a really long time and nothing will happen.  And suddenly - you feel that wild tug.  An idea has come out of nowhere and is demanding your attention.  You reel it in and - voila!  There's your story, there's your piece.  It might be as long as your arm or it might be so pathetic that you only have one option - chuck it back in and start afresh.

For me, I never mentally prepare for a topic.  I sit and stare at the computer screen for quite a while when I need to write.  I do a routine of 5 minutes of procrastination to "get it out of my system".  On a good day, 5 minutes is enough.  On a bad day, it's 30 minutes later and I look at the clock to realize that I'm still looking at hilarious pictures of dogs in Halloween costumes.  So, I start with sitting and staring and not thinking of anything in particular.  And then I just start writing.  I can usually tell right away when it's going to be worthless and not worth continuing.  Sometimes I doggedly ignore that voice and continue reeling that idea in.  But if I don't feel like what I'm reeling in has some fighting spirit, has some potential, I find myself unable to keep pulling it in.  Like letting a line go slack, I let that story slip away.  So often, when I begin writing, I begin writing in earnest.

I suppose there is some comfort in being this way.  Just when I think I've become a dry well, something will appear like an unexpected gem.  But it also perturbs me.  I can't rely on a fount of wisdom and brilliant dialogue.  The fisherman can't point at the water and say "You!  20 pound bass!  Rise to the surface and jump into this net!"  Maybe if the water wasn't so murky some days, I would have better luck.  Or maybe not.  Maybe this is an analogy many writers can relate to.

Certainly passion seems to come into play when writing something.  I can beat and crush and squeeze a topic to death for hours on end, only to get a little bit of juice, if it's something I don't care so much for.  So, since I'm a vegetarian and not passionate about fishing, I'll give this a boost and compare passionate writing to something I am crazy for - cupcakes.  A sweet experience and fun to look at.

Week 1, Prompt 2 of 3

Week 1, Prompt 2

Alone in a quiet room, looking...

I'm sitting at my boyfriend's computer in his room, looking around.  His is a house with history.  He lives in a crowded area of Bangor, but his house has an attached barn with stalls for horses.  Obviously it is one of the older houses on the street.  The rooms each shows signs of being older, too, as well as signs of the previous occupants.  He has changed this house very little since buying it about a decade ago.

There is no overhead light in the bedroom, only lamps.  The floorboards are wide and (rather unfortunately) painted grey.  They remind me of my uncle's old farmhouse in Dexter.  The size, that is, not the color.  We both agree the previous occupants were crazy to paint them.  The light coming in through the windows is a bit gloomy, partly because of the old maple tree that reaches its branches out, blocking the sun.  I don't mind much, though.  I love old trees.  I daydream of walking around in a world bursting with old-growth trees.  I am comforted by this one.

The walls are a sickly green.  I might choose to paint a bookcase this color, or maybe the roof on a dog house, but not walls of an already poorly lit room.  I really think the previous occupants were buying whatever they happened to have a coupon for at Home Depot when they decorated this place.  I keep hoping one of those home improvement shows will randomly show up here with armloads of tiles and buckets of paint, chomping at the bit to get started on a new look.  But maybe it's a good thing.  Maybe I'll go nuts and take it upon myself to redecorate the place.  I can finally learn some home improvement skills, skills that come so easily to my mother and father but were sadly not passed on to me.  And if I mess up, what's the worst that could happen?  I mean, there are grey floorboards with dark green walls for crying out loud!

But enough of the décor.  There's a lot of other kinds of history in this room as well. There's a string stretched out across the wall, with various brightly colored neckties hanging from it like banners at a Japanese Children's Day festival.  One of those ties is the one that I bought for my guy as a present.  I was very fretful, purchasing it.  I've never been very good at selecting men's clothing as a gift.  Actually, thinking back, that may have been the first time for me to make such a purchase.  All those ties clumped together on a string against the wall look a bit tacky, but I can't help but feel a warm feeling pass through me as I look at them.

There's a plaque on the wall, proudly proclaiming the recipient to have completed the necessary requirements needed for a bachelor's degree in psychology.  Looking at its nice frame I feel a wave of embarrassment and regret, thinking of my own diploma.  Same information, different school, stuffed away somewhere in a drawer back home.  It managed to get a stain on it and now is permanently marred.  How embarrassing would that be to display in an office now!  I suppose a picture of a regal animal or mountain scene with a motivational statement under it will have to suffice.

There are still lots of remnants from a past he and I didn't share.  Some artwork, a couple of framed pictures.  I can't and wouldn't ever want to replace the past, just like he could never replace those faces and important things from my past.  Sometimes their presence in this house bothers me, sometimes they simply are.  My eyes slide over these things more slowly, in contemplation.


I see the orange and white creamsicle colors of Baxter, a beloved cat who we both agree is a bit of a simpleton, bless his heart.  He's curled up in his favorite spot in the whole world - freshly cleaned laundry in a basket.  Even the dog knows to treat him differently, because of his special mental capacities, but you would be hard pressed to find a more loving or affectionate creature.  He stares back at me with his opaque eyes, adoring and uncomprehending.  He's a little spark of light in this room.

He goes to curl up on the big bed now, his small frame pressing into the bright pinks and reds of the floral blanket.  It looks so inviting, the blankets, the soft little body lifted by gentle purrs.  I, too, join him for a cat nap.

Week 4, Prompt 1 of 3

Week 4 Prompts, #1

13. I just googled the phrase 'if these could talk.' What inanimate thing do you wish could talk?

If these trees could talk, they'd say "hey lady, get your dog away from me", "ease off on the chemically treated mulch, mister" and "do you really think L.L. will love you forever just because you're carving it into my skin?"  The blue pine growing in the town center would nag the town council on the placement of its yearly fancy holiday dress ad nauseum.  "No, I really think the gold and red look tacky this year.  Listen, we ought to find it in the budget to get some new decorations.  Do we want to give the world the impression that we're just a sad little podunk town?  And fix my star, for God's sake!  The left part's light has gone out.  How can I be a star when my star is just a pathetic cold lump sitting on top?!"

The weeping willow in the park will grumble about its label.  "I have happy days, you know.  Just because of my name doesn't mean I don't have happy days.  Honestly, the birch and the hemlock were being so dire the other day, and who came to the rescue with jokes?  Who had the entire park in stitches?  And then you have just one off day and everyone says 'Ah, well, don't mind that chap, that's a weeping willow for you.  Always doom and gloom.'  People just don't get me.  Lot's of stress, this kind of lovely plumage, you know.  The most striking tree in the park, next to the water's edge, lots of pressure to shade lovers and look good in photographs..."

The maple would deeply resent its lot in life as a giver of maple sugar.  "Oh, no, go on, please do take as much as you want.  I simply insist.  It's not like I was going to use that for, oh, survival or anything.  It's not like I didn't spend my entire year working hard to store all that sugar.  But no, I insist.  I just need it for survival, you need it for pancakes.  Mother's in town I'm sure, want to impress her with your ability to live off the land, don't you dearie?  Don't want her to insist you come back to live with her in the city, now do we.  Go on, stick a spigot in my friend.  Can't risk sucking me dry and not having enough, can we?"

The hedges would border on the ability to communicate, not being proper trees, like simple ogres that garble something out and then you pat them on the head for being so good as to utter barely intelligible sentences.  Some of the trees would be quite keen to mock them for this.  The birch, for instance, in its glorious white wrappings, would snicker at the hedge's childish attempts to communicate.  "Had good day today!  Squirrel!  Squirrel sat on me!"  "What's that, you say, hedgie?  A squirrel shat on you?  My, how disgusting!"  "No..."  The hedge would become quite confused at this, and would wrinkle its face in perturbed frustration if it had a face.  The hemlock would be quick to jump in and defend the hedge, perhaps because the hemlock itself comes quite close to looking like a hedge.  "Oh, come off it birch, where's the sport in picking on poor hedge?!  Honestly!"  Birch would grumble in defensive irritation "just having a bit of fun, no need to get your knickers in a bunch..."  Hemlock would be there, comforting the confused hedge, shushing in parental tones.  "There there, dear hedge.  A squirrel, how wonderful!  Was it a grey one or a red one?"  Sometimes birch would make hedge cry, and there would be no hope for cheering it up, and the rest of the day the others would have to hear the moans and cries of an inconsolable hedge.  "Doesn't get the stress we deal with day to day," weeping willow would mutter.  "Doesn't get that I have it much worse."

Most trees would avoid conversation with ornamental fruit trees.  Their narcissism is well known, and when they are flowering they can be absolutely overbearing about their beauty.  As if that wasn't bad enough, the fruit trees with grafted branches can be absolutely batty.  All those split personalities, you know.  On days when they're really wound up, they're unbearable to even walk by.  One part reciting Shakespeare, another screaming "the soup!  I know I had some soup here!  How DARE you lie to me about my soup?!" while three or four others chatter with each other about the most trivial things.  It's usually the quiet branch that's the most disturbing that you'll want to avoid, however, mumbling incoherently until it suddenly bursts out with "I'll bite you, I will!  Come one step closer and I'll have your scalp firmly between my teeth!"  Of course, that's ridiculous because trees don't have teeth; but quite unsettling to listen to, nonetheless.

Oak trees, especially the wizened old ones, like to build on their reputation of being rather wise.  But talk with one for more than a minute and you'll find yourself quite disappointed in how shallow they actually are.  "My advice to you, my boy, is this.  My advice is that you should go and sell everything you own, and start afresh in this world.  You should tell your father that-  I say, did you here that, just now?  Those two yew, nattering on in the background.  Like they are the two most important trees in the world!"  The oak will harrumph at its own self-importance.  "I've been around for over 100 years, what could I possibly have to say that's important?!  Oh no, DO go on with your mockery you two ninnies, I heard what you muttered just now!  Listen boy, ignore those two- those two baboons!  The one on the left just got its branches pruned, thinks its the bee's knees now.  I had someone carve their name into in my trunk in 1915, but I guess I'm just a winded old gasbag to them, aren't I?"  The oak will usually continue on with its unasked for wisdom - "do onto others as they would do onto you", "never look a gift horse in its mouth", "floss twice a day or in between meals" - until you're finally able to slowly back out with false excuses of direly needing to be elsewhere.

Jungle trees that like to shout "snake!" and laugh hysterically when tourists dive into the brush, grand redwoods who mention theirs' and every other creature in the area's bodily functions while you attempt to enjoy the view and a cup of joe during an early morning sunrise, tiny bonsai that like to pontificate on cultured beauty and the role of Asian culture in the Western hemisphere...  They all have something they like to contribute to the world, after being kept quiet for so long.  Strange how grass parks have become all the rage these days.

Week 2 Prompt, 1 of 3

6. The stuff I've collected over the years in my little box/bureau drawer/keepsake chest marks every step of my way.

I used to collect all kinds of things.  I had a little memo pad full of stickers that I would randomly flip through and enjoy.  As a child I wanted to be an ornithologist, so I collected feathers.  Some were just regular ones - a blue jay here, a mallard's mottled neck feather there.  But then there were the thick, shining green ones that an ornithologist-turned-nurse had given me.  Or the difficult to find brightly colored yellow feather of an evening grosbeak.  I liked to collect other things from nature as well.  Fossils, sea shells, rocks.  I inherited some strange items from my great-grandmother Beulah, such as a dried out puffer fish and an abalone shell.  She died when I was 5, so I never did have the opportunity to find out where such random items had come from.  I also had quite the pen, pencil, and stationary collection.  One would think that because I collected those items I was constantly writing.  But I was actually mostly just fascinated with them visually.  The pen with blue liquid in it and a whale, damned to eternally move backwards or forwards a couple of inches.  The thick, massive pencil with dollar bill designs, too ridiculously big to actually be used for anything.  The stationary with the floral print and parrots.

All of that is gone now.  After my parents got divorced, in my college years, many things got shuffled here or there.  Children of still married parents don't realize how lucky they have it.  They can always leave their childhood memories in their old rooms, year after year while they find their place in the adult world, until parents finally get fed up and make them go through stuff.  I suddenly found myself faced with needing to find a home for a lifetime's worth of items, and nowhere to put them.  I was moving a lot, having trouble finding a job, fresh out of college.  After a year of unemployment, then another year miserable at a job, I got my assistant teaching job in Japan.  And I didn't return home to Maine for 5 years after that.  3 years in Japan, one in Massachusetts, one in New Zealand.  Except for brief visits, I never really came back for a long stay.

Most of what I owned got lost over those years and that first year of divorce.  My dad found my sea shell and nature items collection in his shed, and threw the whole thing out  (let's just say that not completely clean crab shells you find on the beach as a child don't store necessarily well).  But some of the feathers, rocks, and other items I would have wanted were gone now too.  I felt a sense of loss when he told me.  More items were sold, lost, broken, or thrown away.  I no longer had a collection of anything from when I was growing up.  The anchor to my childhood has been severed.

These days I own a lot less than I used to.  No furniture, no household items to brighten an apartment.  It's hard to say that I have a "collection" of anything.  But I've finally come back to my beloved state to stay, and I intend to hang on to those things that are precious to me.  There is my growing collection of cooking utensils.  In Japan I became a vegetarian, and since then have become much more of a cooking enthusiast than I ever was.  When I pull out my kitchen drawers, I find the random items of a budding foodie.  A pastry mat, with diameters marked for different sized pies.  Various cookie cutters - butterflies, stars, hearts, even the shape of Maine.  I doubt anyone but a Mainer would recognize the latter though.  Gifts from family members, like my immersion blender, show their acknowledgment of my new-found hobby.  A row of vegetarian cookbooks, many of them presents as well, sit along the counter.  One of the few t.v. shows I enjoy is Master Chef.  My dream is becoming a cooking master some day.  I turn from these things, warm with thoughts of becoming the ultimate foodie.

Another collection, in my closet in a small storage container, bears witness to my world travels.  Gifts from beloved colleagues and friends in Japan.  Some of these are decorations, but I somehow can't bring myself to decorate my small studio apartment with them.  I keep saying "when I own a home".  That seems so far away though.  I waste this random beauty, but can't really explain why.  Perhaps it is the tug at my heart, every time I am reminded of the people and places I left behind.  To close your eyes and see the streets of another place so clearly, but to know that it would take thousands of dollars and miles and miles to see them once again.  That has always been the pain of traveling, for me.  To love a place so thoroughly, but know that you cannot return easily to it.  Or in some cases, never to return again.  I try not to guess which places those might be.

A lovely green fan with cherry blossoms, a wire frame decorated with blue pukeko (a native bird of New Zealand), a map of Australia.  I went on vacation for a couple of weeks to Thailand, while I was living in Japan.  But there aren't any mementos in this box.  I cringe to remember that trip.  Being forgotten on a small, uninhabited island by a tour guide.  Having a man demand that I give him money while traveling in a jungle in the middle of nowhere on another tour.  No, I don't need mementos from there unfortunately.

Then there are the mementos that I keep stored in a separate container, that I can only bear to look at on occasion.  A homemade photo album from one of my sweetest, kindest students.  Photos of me standing with my adult English students at the community center in Goshogawara.  A homemade note from a student saying how much they would miss me.  I wish my personality wasn't such that I feel the bittersweetness of it all when I see such things, but at least for now it seems to be so.  Maybe some day I will be able to look at these pictures without that sad, tugging feeling in my heart.

Enough of these things though.  The only other collection that I could say I have is my books.  These days I try to use the library exclusively, to save my money and apartment space rather than collect books.  But this collection is perhaps the only one that survived the divorce, the one real reminder of my childhood.  Some books were lost along the way, but I still keep a hefty amount with me.  There are the countless fantasy novels I read while growing up.  The occasional elementary school level book that for one reason or another always stayed with me.  Looking at these books is like watching a timeline of who I was becoming over the years.  It's my personality on display.  Books have been and always will be near and dear to me; for now they are stored tightly in a box, but one day they will again be proudly displayed.

I think that collections don't just reveal our hobbies or interests, they reveal something of that inner spark that resides within all of us.  I wonder what kinds of things I will collect in the future?  I hope that someday I will have all these cherished memories proudly on display.

Journal, Day 7

It was quite an exhausting day!  I took over two classes for a teacher who was gone for the day, 6th and 8th grade.  By noon I was completely exhausted from constantly talking, scolding, and refocusing the class to the tasks at hand.  I think it went well though; despite the sprinkling of scoldings and the need to be sharp with one student in particular.  I felt like I was able to connect with the students and for the most part they got something out of the exchange.  Being in charge of a room full of young people can be quite intimidating.  It's hard to make sure they get the most out of their time there when there's so many of them and you're using someone's emergency activity.  In a perfect world I would have no more than five students.

Working with these students makes me think of my educational goals.  I plan on working with ESOL (English to Speakers of Other Languages) students.  I particularly enjoy working with international students at the college level.  ESL is where I've had most of my work experience.  It's truly a joy to me.  I do worry about being the best teacher I can be.  I have met so many amazing teachers who talk about activities that they've done in the classroom, and I think "why didn't I think of that?!"  My personality is very much the person who frets, the worrier.  I always worry about cheating my students of an amazing lesson.  Heaving a sigh...  Well, at least it could never be said that I didn't care about the students.  Perhaps that's half the battle.

The work day dragged, in a building that could do a hefty side business as a sauna in the summer, and (I've been told) sufficiently keep your ice cream and popsicles frozen in the winter.  Needless to say, I was relieved to drive away, windows down and breezes pouring in (except when I drive past the cow farms.  Enough said).

Then it was time for dinner with a dear friend whom I don't see nearly enough.  Our topics of conversation ranged the spectrum, and it felt good to talk with someone whose opinion I value and is easy to talk to.  In the world of texts and busy schedules, sometimes it's amazing how little we connect with one another.  Sometimes I miss the world of only-yet budding technology.

I ended the day trying to get some important reading done, but finding myself face down on my book several hours later.  Better luck to myself this weekend...

Journal, Day 6

Today was blessedly free of any major health disaster thankfully!  Unless you consider a lack of sleep a health disaster, which I suppose I do since I put zombies to shame when I haven't gotten a proper night's rest.

This morning I got into my car to find the gift of a beautiful feather on my windshield.  Many little bird poos as well, but a delightful red cardinal feather pasted to the moisture on the glass, perhaps as an apology for using my car as a toilet.  A quick nab and a few heavy duty windshield wipes later, and good as new and my little red friend joined me on the dashboard.

Work was work.  Being a zombie perhaps didn't help.  I'm not the coffee drinking sort though, and try hard not to resort to such things as a means of waking up.  My last job had free coffee all the time, and I shamefully partook of such a service more often than I should have.  But considering how my behavior after even just half a cup gives people the impression that I have some sort of drug problem, I think it's for the best that I don't slide back into the habit.  I do wish that all work places had emergency napping stations though.  And recess.

Back to Bangor to get some work done.  I don't like the drive, in that it is very time consuming to go to and from work, and I worry about the cost of gas and the wear and tear on my car, etc., etc.  But I do enjoy the time for slow contemplation of things.  The pastures and trees put my mind into a peaceful, meditative ease.  I find my mind wanders far and wide, on my commutes.  Home, that is.  To work I am usually too consumed with the day's tasks to consider anything else.  I really ought to get back into my peaceful morning meditations!

Dinner with my man, brief because he had to work late.  Exhaustion claimed me, I found myself face down on the bed.  Up, waking up, shake it off and back to work.  I find I am so easily wiped out, compared with others.  My boyfriend said "but you're not them, so let it go".  I remember how I used to stay up until 3 or 4 in the morning, in college.  Now I'm lucky if I can make it past 11 pm.  But, too, I can enjoy the gentle light of morning much better than I was ever able to before.

Pitch black outside right now, and time to wind down, methinks.  There's never enough time in the day to get the things done that I want to get done.  This shall be my lament for a while more, I think, until I get my feet under me once and for all.  Ah, well.  Oyasumi!  (Good night!)

Journal, Day 5

Today started with a bit of a gamble of life and death, aka driving in my car during weather that is less than perfect.  I do have new tires, I will say that.  I was driving an absolute death trap 2 weeks ago.  Now it's just "slightly less of a death trap".  The wiper likes to leave a smear across the middle.  So if one were to casually glance at the driver approaching them in the salmon pink car in the opposite lane (I've never been sure how to describe my car's color to the DMV), they would note that she was either hunched as if preparing to vomit or stretched like a giraffe.  But it's really the smear's fault.

Ah, well.  I really do drive as carefully as I can.  And I think the rain was much needed.  It just reminds me again of how summer has truly come to a close, and fall is fast approaching.  Not that I dislike fall, or even winter for that matter.  I just wish that Maine had seasons that were nice and neat and lasted only 3 months each.  Well, okay, maybe summer could be four months and spring could be two.  No one likes mud that much.

Work was work.  Then off to do errands, one being a quick stop at the hospital to pick up something for lab work that needed to be done.  There's actually an amusing story that goes with that, but I suppose for people with stomachs that are not of steel, it would be a bit less entertaining.  It's funny; my mom's a nurse and she sees disgusting things all day.  She handles disgusting things.  She had a man come in to the family medicine practice she once worked at with most of his hand cut off from a chainsaw.  Not even fazed.  But if I try to tell her a gross story, she cuts me off in protest.  "It's not the same!" she says.  Apparently she has a magic shield of "not grossed out" that is only on at work.  That magical shield only works for me if I'm talking about my own gross habits and experiences.  I will give her credit for having, overall, a much stronger stomach than I!

And speaking of stomachs, my boyfriend's beloved golden retriever found our coconut chocolate cookies in my shopping bag while we were in a different store, and managed to consume the ENTIRE box during the short time we were gone.  She'll be cuddling with us tonight.  Hope I don't wake up in the middle of the night to experience my own personal gross story.

Journal, Day 4

I survived another day at my new job, yay!  I was actually quite ill, but since the boss mentioned in a meeting how nice it was that so few sick days were used by employees, I didn't dare say boo.  Sometimes I think the American view on health and productivity is so skewed!
Well, I managed NOT to vomit into a trash can in front of a room full of kids, so I guess that's my own personal triumph for the day!
Being sick and not being able to do anything about it got me to thinking about productivity, and how we have such skewed notions of it.  I really do think that we would be much more productive as a society (whatever THAT means) if we embraced.. vacations.  And down time.  And going home.  And "gosh darn it, Maine has so few sunny days, why should I sit inside hunched at my desk all day?!" days.  In New Zealand the average vacation (modeled after many European countries) is 4 weeks.  France, I've been told, has five weeks of vacation.  Five!  Doesn't it sound almost criminal?!
Having lived and worked in Japan, I know what the viewpoint is of those considering their meager vacation time compared with a country with a lot of vacation.  The average Japanese person takes 3 days off a year for themselves.  A honeymoon, the longest vacation they'll ever get to blink at, lasts a week.  Some doctors have literally ONE day off a year.  Are they more productive than Americans?  I didn't necessarily see the difference.  I had students cramming for exams who, despite having a special day off, would literally spend their time from waking to sleep just studying.  I couldn't convince them that if they took 2 hours off for themselves, they probably would be much more likely to remember everything.
So, to the average Japanese person, Americans must seem like they have a crazy amount of vacation time.  But ironically, they seem to be much better about sick time.  It's true, "vacation time" in your contract actually means "this is your sick time, don't you DARE use this for vacation time you disgusting sloth!"  Sick time means "wow, you must have been so sick you used all your vacation time, and now you're using your sick time to boot!"  The issue of no vacations aside, I've found them to be quite accommodating about issues of health.  It isn't unheard of even for an employee to take off time for mental health.  How nice would that be to have in the U.S.?
So, these were the things passing through my mind as I held my guts and tried to concentrate on what a group of rambunctious 13 year-olds were shouting to me and each other.  Although, now that I think of it, reversing lunch in front of everyone would certainly have quieted the room.

Journal, Day 3

Today was a bit of a slow day, so not too much to report.  My boyfriend and I embraced our inner children by having root beer floats.  It was nice to giggle over soda-foam.  I suppose I've become too much the adult though, because I guiltily thought about high fructose corn syrup from time to time.  I really miss the days when stuff like that would never have occurred to me!!

Lots of good personal conversations with him.  Watching him recover from his crazy camping trip.  Trying to catch up on reading for a class.  A slow day.  I wish this whole coming week was vacation; there never seems to be enough time in the day now.

The sun was such a brilliant orange tonight.  Sometimes the beauty of the night sky in Bangor makes me wistful for Tekapo, New Zealand.  The skies there were absolutely amazing.  I love to travel, but I always feel heartsick for the people and places I've known, afterwards.

Time to let night seep in, the slow enveloping of darkness, so much more peaceful than the chaos of day.  And with that I bid an "oyasumi!"

Journal, Day 2

Getting organized...

Ah, could there be a bigger bane in my existence??  I hate starting the day off wrong.  It seems to set the tone for the whole day.  Or maybe that's just my excuse.  At least today I was finally able to get more than 4 hours of sleep!  Even though my landlord's demon cat demanded love and attention at a god awful hour using her banshee's cry.. as usual...

But I digress.  I did manage to get the dishes done, finally.  Most archeologists would be interested to see the collected layers of my kitchen.  And I did read more of my book for my True Crime class.  Cram reading is one thing, but cram reading about a serial killer who does horrific things to the bodies is kind of.. ugh!  The psyche of the serial killer actually fascinates me, but I can't quite imagine them as real people.  They seem like characters in books or movies, not the neighbor next door.  This book is non-fiction, but it still seems so surreal.

Then I needed a break and started to make dinner for my boyfriend and roommate, for when they arrived back from the woods.  I thought of spaghetti, and started making breadsticks to go with it.  I felt rather glum as I did this.  My newest doctor wants me to go on an elimination diet, to see if I have food allergies.  I should be getting out of the habit of cooking with gluten.  But it's hard to change mental gears.  I love to bake, so it's hard to think about being allergic to gluten.  Or soy, or corn, or the myriad of other things I will need to cut from my diet in order to do this experiment.

I spent a time looking through my cookbooks wistfully.  This kind of thing is hard on a foodie.

I don't have internet at my house, so I drove to Bangor to use my boyfriend's computer.  I've gotten a lot less work done today than I've wanted.  I'm feeling more glum as a result.  I've had a lot of changes in my life in the past two weeks though, so I just have to keep plugging until I get back into the rhythm.  "I've got rhythm, I've got music... who could ask for anything more~."

Journal, Day 1

It's been such a crazy, hectic week.  I feel like a candle with no wick left.  Now it's almost 11 pm and I'm getting ready to leave my boyfriend's empty house for my home.  I've been there such a small amount of time this week; I wonder if the cat remembers me?

Today was fairly productive, I think.  My boyfriend and his roommate were headed out to the wilderness for a weekend of camping.  I longed to go with them, but sometimes guys need guy time.  And I've been rather swamped with things that needed to get done.  So after making them breakfast and seeing them off (I really can be quite mothering at times), I planted myself down in front of the computer to roll up my sleeves and get to work.

I've been really quite anxious about being so behind this week, but as they say in Japanese "shikata ga nai" - it can't be helped.   I worried quite a bit about the writing assignment "the writer as a writer" using three different voices.  I thought perhaps they would all sound the same, but to my delight I felt they all sounded very different and unique (to me anyhow) as a result.  Well, I still have lots of misgivings about my writing, but I enjoyed myself while doing it, and I suppose that's half the battle.

After a few hours of that I couldn't contain myself and launched off my chair and out the door.  Nothing is more torturous than hearing birds sing on a sunny day and not partaking of any of it.  I drove downtown and went to my favorite cafe for lunch, Giacomo's.  I really ought not to have bought lunch, I'm trying to save money, but I can't help savoring a good ice coffee, sandwich, and a delicious book while sitting in a cafe.  It's okay to spoil yourself once in a while, right?

I wandered around outside, wandered to the library to return a book.  I absolutely adore downtown Bangor.  It's kind of like a little Venice, here in Maine.  It really is an enchanting little place, and here in the fullness of summer it seems all the more lovely.  The outer parts, the big shopping areas, have changed so much from my childhood.  But here, in the downtown, it will always be the charming place of my youth.

I needed to enjoy the warmth of the day, so I went to the Bangor City Forest and walked for a couple of hours.  Even if my thoughts are chattering away, I can feel them slow a little with the sifting of wind through pine needles, the light and shadows moving on the path as I walk.  It felt good to be out, to be exercising.  It felt like the first time in two weeks that I had finally taken out time for myself.  I savored it.

Then off to the Natural Living Center to wander the aisles aimlessly.  I need to go on a special diet for my health soon, and I should be here to look at ingredients and plan, but I can't bring myself to it.  Instead I buy some random snacks and wander back out.  I eat dried sheets of nori (a kind of seaweed) while I wait for the red light to change, and feel amused at how silly I must look.

Then finally back to my boyfriend's house, where only the cats are here to greet me.  They're incredibly sweet, affectionate things.  I'm not particularly fond of cats, but I do like these ones.  I feel good about the next chunk of writing that I complete, and head down for some dinner.  But alas here I am again, my brain feeling increasingly fried and no ideas forthcoming.  I decided it was better to complete my journal entry now and come back to the drawing board tomorrow.  Perhaps it's too late, but either way I'd like to finish it, for my sake at least.  And on that note, back to Winterport and to bed!

Week 1 Prompt, 1 of 3

Week 1, Prompt 1

Alone in a quiet room, listening...

I close my eyes and listen to all the sounds coming to me.  There's the annoyed thump of a cat's tail near me, because I wouldn't let him sit on my lap.  Papers shifting under his weight, as he settles precariously elsewhere, sulking.  The door to the bedroom is open; I can easily hear downstairs.  The other cat must be shifting about too, because I can hear the occasional creak of floor boards, the occasional thump.  Or it's a serial killer sneaking around.  A click here, a tap there.  It's enough to fill someone with paranoia.  But it's just the cat.  I think.

Outside, the cars are shifting by, the endless whoosh of highway traffic.  I could almost imagine it's the wind, but then they pass on, and instead I'm filled with annoyance at having to live near such a noisy road.  Cars are zipping through our little side street as well, probably headed for the highway.  Whoosh!  They drive much too fast, here on our little street.  Maybe there's some comfort in hearing them, though.  It makes me feel just a little bit less alone in this big empty house.

The rumble and rush of cars can almost, but not quite, drown out the sad, desperate trilling of crickets.  They sound like a high-pitched death knell for summer.  It makes me feel tired, in anticipation of winter, but also a little bit excited.  I associate the end-of-summer crickets with lovely fall foliage and Halloween. I suppose they associate it with one last ditch effort to get the girl before you croak.

Someone's parked outside, their music annoyingly muffled and vague, but still loud.  The house thumps slightly from the bass.  I imagine this person is waiting for their date or friend, to head out somewhere downtown and enjoy the final fruits of summer.  There always seems to be a fever pitch around Labor day weekend, amongst people.  Like the crickets.  It's a last ditch chance to enjoy something before the demands of work and school.  Maybe we all die a little death at the end of summer.  We're Mainers, after all.  We know what's coming.

The tick and clack of the keyboard is soothing.  If I type fast enough, it drowns out the sounds of the serial killer downstairs, who for some reason seems to enjoy rifling through my things and taking his time coming up the stairs to kill me.  Or maybe he's too lazy and is waiting for me to come downstairs to him.  I suspect I, too, would be a rather lazy serial killer.

I can hear an airplane in the distance.  I'm not sure if it's coming in for a landing or headed out on an adventure.  It reminds me of how my boyfriend and I will look at airplanes flying high, leaving a trail of white in a perfect blue sky.  If there's more than one, I'll point to one of the white trails and say, "Which one?  Which plane would we be on?"  And we both contemplate them together.  "That one's going west," he'll say.  "We could go to Japan."  I'll mention the plane going in the opposite direction, and we'll weigh the pros and cons of taking the airplane headed to Europe instead.  We want to go on a trip together so badly.  I wonder which way this particular airplane was heading to or from.  I always feel a tug in my heart when I hear an airplane.  That's how much I miss traveling.

Crash!  The cat has decided to leave his perch, taking half the items he sat upon with him.  I hear his little paws as he dashes out the door on some unknown and suddenly exceedingly important errand.  Now the creak of my faux leather seat as I lean back, eyes squinted shut, concentrating, concentrating.  The faint yet fast thump of my heart, the blood rushing through my body.  I really do think my imagine gets the better of me too often.  I hear another creak from the living room.  Well, it doesn't matter, I need to go downstairs and get some dinner now.  Maybe we can share.  I hope that serial killer likes cornbread and chili.

Week 1, Part 1. Writer's Autobiography as a Writer

First Person:

My strength has always laid in reading, not writing.  Turned off from an early age to sports and physical activity by the catcalls of peers on the playground and during gym class, I spent my summers belly-down, devouring books by the pile, sucked into other worlds much more interesting than my own.  Writing was for doing homework assignments, working on essays, sweating over during tests.  Writing never seemed to have the potential for, well, fun.

But my love affair with books was undeniable.  And as I grew older, my palate for higher quality writing, less "fluff" if you will, grew as well.  I began to notice nuances, creative details, and recognized what was going to be a five star meal of a book and what was going to be just a fast food one.  I began to demand more from my beloved authors.  I started to grow out of writers that I had followed religiously, reading more outside my usual scope.

I never really did dabble in what could be called writing.  I had ideas that I would occasionally jot down, thinking wistfully of how nice it would be to develop them into a story some day, but never feeling satisfied with my ability (real or imagined).  Still, as my love of books grew more refined, so did my interest in writing and writing styles.  Finally, in college I had the opportunity to take a creative fiction writing class.  I wanted to see if there was a joy in writing as well, so I signed up as soon as I was able to.

My teacher was wonderful.  She could have been teaching politics, geology, or alpaca sweater knitting and I still would have adored her.  She just had one of those sparkling personalities that drew everyone to her.  And that was really good, because I was definitely a hesitant writer.  Having a friendly face in a sea of critics helped draw me out of my shell some.

I've always been incredibly shy about showing to others what little writing I've created.  Perhaps it's because I was never in the habit of producing it regularly.  Drawing - now that's something I'm comfortable with.  I'm not a Pablo Picasso or a Monet when it comes to art, but I've been doing it since I was little, and somehow I've always been able to show it to others and take constructive criticism well.  I could analyze my art with a critical, not judgmental, eye and feel satisfied with what I saw.  But writing...  Showing others my writing always felt like undressing in front of someone for the first time.  And even if they honestly liked what they saw, I could somehow never quite believe them.  Any criticism felt like fiery "JUDGEMENT".  Like they were commenting on me, not some piece of paper with words on it.

Being in the creative writing class helped.  I was able to transition my thinking a bit more, bring in those feelings I had from presenting my art to presenting my writing.  I suppose the older I get the more this is the case for many other things, too.  But there is still that sense of shyness, that hesitancy.  And part of me wants to keep my writing secret.  Like the little treasure in your pocket that only you know about.  But there has always been a joy in sharing my drawings with others, no matter how rough or lacking they have been.  And I'd like to find that joy with writing as well.  The ideas that pass through my mind every day like fish - I want to catch them and display them.  It seems such a waste to let so many ideas fade back into the murky depths of my mind.

Second Person:

You have this pressing need to write in a journal every day.  For some reason, you have decided that you need to do this.  Years later, you can't really figure out why it was so important to do so.  It just was.  You have this pressing need, but you don't really think about your personality first before diving into this latest project.  You have this vision of perfection.  You're in middle school, so you can't really let things go at this age, you can't figure out it would be SO much easier if you just yielded to the inevitable.

So.  It has been decided that you will write in your journal EVERY night, diligently, and you will even mark down the start and end time of each entry.  And you will feel greatly disappointed in yourself and judge yourself heavily if you miss even one entry.  And as a result you hate journaling and you last perhaps two months before everything fizzles out.  Oh, sure, you come back to it now and again.  You have a pretty good run when you're in high school, but it's not until years later that you can even stand to pick up a journal, let alone write in one.

After years of collecting a handful of pretty but shamefully EMPTY journals, you find yourself killing time in a department store in Japan.  There's a tiny notebook, delightfully thin and just the right size for your purse, on one of the shelves in the department store.  It has a design of photographed cherries.  Really plain compared to other journals, but perhaps less intimidating because it would be so easy to fill one up.  On a whim, you decide to buy it.  All these years you wanted to be in the habit of journaling.  You wanted to write about your stresses, your major life changes, your fun little ideas that you never seem to write down in time before they fade and disappear, and now here's your chance.  Again.

THIS time, you are going to do it differently, you decide.  This time you are going to be mindful of your personality.  You aren't the type to just sit and write every night.  It didn't work for you in the past and you don't see it suddenly working for you now.  And if you leave it by your bed stand, it will probably go largely ignored.  This time, you will keep it in your purse, readily available when you need it.  And no more psychotic rules about the time you wrote an entry, or how long it was.  Well, you will keep writing the dates.  You can't lose all sense of order, can you?!

So, you do.  You keep the journal handy with you.  You don't write in it every day, and you let it go.  That's okay.  You find that it's fun to write about something during a boring work meeting (and let's face it, there are many of those in the Japanese work place).  You can doodle art while waiting for a doctor's appointment.  You can pull it out and remind yourself to pick up dish detergent before you forget.  And you can write all those wonderful ideas that had always been slipping away, and rest well at night knowing that even if you never act on those ideas, at least they are locked somewhere safe.

You begin to enjoy the presence of your journal.  You carefully select ones that fit in your purse.  Each journal is unique, is given special reverence.  You start writing haiku on a regular basis, and enjoy flipping through older journals to re-read them or laugh at a random doodle.

You find your rhythm with your journals, and although it occasionally distresses you that you don't write in them often enough (oh dear perfectionist, will you clutch in desperation eternally?), you find peace in them.  You wish you could go back in time and tell that sad middle school girl frantically checking and recording the time in her little green notebook that "it's okay.  You'll get there eventually."

Third Person:

She never really cared about writing that much.  Well, maybe a little, but she didn't really have confidence in hers.  And no one ever really asked much from her for writing. Unless we're talking about homework writing, which we're not.

In 8th grade she had a new English teacher.  The teacher was new to town, too.  She was actually this student's neighbor - ugh, is it a good thing or a bad thing to have a teacher as a neighbor when in middle school?

This teacher was new to teaching as well.  She was kind, but sometimes suddenly sharp and angry with the students.  The student probably feared her more than she loved her.  Like someone receiving a loving pat, but cringing in anticipation of the slap.  But that's too harsh an assessment of this teacher.  She really wasn't that bad, this was just a skewed view through a young middle school student's lens.

And the teacher's passion for her subject showed.  She tried to be creative with her teaching and she tried to get students interested in their subject.  The student's memory is faded now about those classes, but she still remembers one writing assignment.  THE writing assignment, that stuck with her for all these years.

Students had to write a creative fiction piece.  This student in particular loved science fiction and fantasy.  She loved it more than any other genre.  She always had ideas whirling in her mind, and now she had an assignment to give some of those ideas direction.

She always worried about the planet, state of affairs with the environment, that kind of thing.  So she wrote using that and her love of science fiction, and she came up with an unusual story.  Creative, or at least she hoped.  She was proud of her work.  Certainly it wasn't the first fiction story she had written, but it was the first she had poured her heart and soul into.

In the story, babies were in a laboratory, hooked up to machines. Robots clicked and whirred, moving about, feeding the children, injecting them periodically with mysterious chemicals.  The chemicals must have had a purpose though, because the babies' growth increased abnormally.  They began to move about the room.  They began to show signs of faster-than-normal intelligence.  They began to develop their own language.

Months later these now young children traveled around the laboratory and found different floors with different purposes - plants and animals being raised by machines, equipment running in different rooms.  Finally the children found a video of a man speaking, and after several weeks (with their rapid-growth intelligence) they were able to translate the video.  The man said that there had been many wars and the Earth had been completely devastated, now void of any life.  He explained that the children were in a secret laboratory deep underground.  They were left with the very important task of reseeding the earth, sending out plants and animals to once again cover the world.  And to repopulate the planet with people once again.

In the end the children went to the surface, saw the emptiness, the devastation.  They decided they would reseed the plants and raise the animals.  But they would not repopulate the earth.  The sins of their ancestors was too great, and the species would die with them.

Her teacher liked her story.  She blushed with pride at her teacher's praise.  And balked when her teacher suggested she submit the story to a young adult's journal, for a writing competition posted there.  There was prize money to be had, but the thought of being published is what drew the student.  She was nervous, but she wanted to try it.  She had real pride in her story and thought that she might have a chance.

After (characteristically) scrambling to get her entry ready in time and generally causing her parents and teacher distress, she submitted her work.  And waited, and waited.  Finally, the story came back in the mail. It was covered in red ink.  All the corrections that could have, should have been made were there for her to see.  And a note at the bottom thanking her for her entry and informing her that she hadn't won.

When the winning entry was released in the journal, she read it.  It was about some troubled boy who liked to soothe his inner darkness by holding his head in a flushing toilet and laying on the ground and snorting salt.  Those who get published, she reflected, have to write about something dark in order to do so (she didn't, until many years later, make the connection that her story was also perhaps a bit dark as well).  She felt sad, and disappointed.  That little fire that had started to grow quickly went out.  She liked writing, but it wasn't something that she could feel passionate about.  So she gave it up.  And she didn't write again until many years later, in college.