I started writing some poetry recently, and this poem, “View from a Second / Story Window” is something I feel rather good about. It is a compilation of my college career. I hope you enjoy it…after the jump!

“View from a Second / Story Window”

I.

The lights don’t shine so bright this far from the

city.

And the sky is glowing, lighting up the air.

And the starshine makes a mirror in your long dark hair.

And through it I can see myself.

Through that mirror I can see myself.

II.

Beautiful Girls….they are.

           beautiful.

                       They sing.

                            They walk.

They talk.

                 They dance.

They                                               act.

                     They laugh.

                                   They think.

                                                    They ignore.

                                                             They punish.

They heal.

They hurt.

They help.

They abstain.

                                  They drink.

They fuck.

They wish.

They maim.

They dream.

They scream.

They play.

                                                                               They steal.

They kill. They eat. They love.

They live beautiful, girls.

III.

I do not hate, and yet I am not

good.

I cannot love and yet I am not

evil.

There’s more than meets the eye here,

More story to be had;

        Good versus Evil at the edge of the world. They tumble off and leave us innately

human.

                             human.

                                                          human.

Neutral.

     And when all our identities are gone all that remains is

human.

                             human.

                                                          human.

In other news, I submitted a short dramatic piece to our school’s review. Let’s see it…after the jump!

Lost and Found

A dramatic non-fiction piece

(At Rise: A girl, Anne, 18, sits center stage under a bright spotlight. At one side of her there is a suitcase with the word “Found” on it. At the other, a suitcase that says “Lost”. Directly in front of her, there is a pile of belongings; some clothes, some shoes, some picture frames, some childhood toys…these are to be put into the suitcases as specified whenever Anne says “Lost” or “Found”.  In the background, “My Sundown” by Jimmy Eat World plays.)

Anne:

Graduation Day, I could see the flyers posted in my parent’s eyes.  They read:

Lost: One young woman; beautiful, talented, intelligent, friendly, outgoing, strong, faithful, full of promise, and life.

Found: One young woman; ugly, insecure, cynical, false, fragile, faithless, friendless, and full of despair.

I started college.

Lost: My identity. Close to home, yet so far away, I couldn’t get over the life I’d given up.

Found: More than I could have predicted at the time.

Enter Boy.

Lost: My heart.

Found: A boy who might actually know what to do with it.

Lost: That boy, who might have actually known what to do with it, had Chicago not called quite so temptingly.

Now what?

Found: Friends. Namely, Katie and Nicole. We were a unit, inseparable. One couldn’t be without the other two; it was like we were meant to be together forever. Forever.

But the call was too tempting for me too. Breaking of the fellowship, I heeded the siren call of the city to the North.

Lost: Everything I knew about myself and my surroundings. It is all different here.

Found: That gypsies cannot be depended upon. For anything.

Lost: That boy, who might have actually known what to do with it, had he not lost his job and had to move back home.

Found: Tanya. Caustic, sarcastic, and strangely beautiful. Loving, warm, and the most natural thing in the world. My soul’s recognition of its counterpart. It is love, but it is not enough.

I decide that the US is not for me. I go to Italy.

Lost: Basically all of my material objects, after a series of no less than three separate pick-pocketings. Picked-pockets? Whatever.

Found: The world may be fun, but nowhere in the world is as nice as waking up in my old bed at my grandmother’s house, being taken care of.

I return to the city, with the Boy in tow, but everything is different.

Lost:  Their respect.

Found:  A brief stint of the most happiness I’ve ever known.

Nicole, a third of the terrific trio, decides to jump off of a bridge in August of 2007.

Lost.

Everything’s Lost.

(Anne dumps all the clothes into the “Lost” bag, even those out of the “Found” bag, in a moment of frenzy. She  pauses, as the music plays in the background. Then, she stands. She takes the “Lost” bag, and places it inside the “Found” bag. It just fits.)

Everything’s lost. Everything but this.

(Anne picks up the “Found” bag, begins walking toward the exit.)

Found: One young woman; maybe not beautiful, but definitely striking. Maybe not talented, but definitely determined. Maybe not intelligent, but definitely able. Maybe not any of those things, but definitely ready to become those things.

Found: Me.

(Lights Out)

I got a thing in the mail today inviting me to be a part of the Greek Honor Society, Alpha Chi, and I think I’m going to go for it. Maybe it’ll help me out when it comes to Grad School applications.

So, that’s it for now. Just thought I’d let you guys know.

                “I’d give anything to be with you forever.”

                We stood on the banks of dark water, and I knew he meant what he said. If I said the word, he would wade in, waist deep, give up his whole life to be with me. But I couldn’t let him do that.

                “There’s nothing you can do, Lon. It’s over.” I fought hard to keep tears out of my voice. It was tough, being here like this, me on one side and him on the other. We hadn’t been this far apart since we met.

                “It’s not fair. Jenny, it’s not fair. We were supposed to be together, always.” He’s going to cry, and it’s going to ruin everything. I can feel the lump in my throat moving down, toward my stomach.

                “We’ll be together again. It’s okay. This isn’t forever, don’t you understand? Some day, it’ll be your turn to cross the river and I’ll be here, waiting for you. I’ll sit right here on the bank and wait. And whenever you need me, I’ll be here waiting.”

*

                “Lon Carter? How you feeling, buddy?”

                “I’m fine. Could you please find my wife?” Lon’s head pounded as he got off the table, and the sterile scent scalded his nostrils. He had always hated the smell of hospitals, but this one in particular smelled horrifying. “We need to get out of here. I’ve been cleared to leave.”

                “Mr. Carter, I’m going to need you to sit back down. You’re not quite ready to leave yet.” The nurse stuck her thermometer in his ear without much ado. He fidgeted while she brought a small flashlight up to his eyes and checked his pupils.

                “The doctor said I was fine…” The nurse could tell he was agitated, but she didn’t hurry her inspection. She brought a stethoscope to his chest and listened closely.

                “Breathe in, Mr. Carter….and back out….” Lon went to check his watch and realized it wasn’t there.  Must have cut it off…those bastards, couldn’t they tell that was fine jewelry and not some made-in-China piece of shit?

                 A pretty, red haired woman entered, interrupting his thoughts.

                “Karen, what are you doing here?”

                “How are you, Lonnie? How’s your head?” Karen gave him a gentle hug and then grimaced at the stitches above his left eye. “How many did they give you?”

                “Enough. At least, it better be, I’ve been here for hours. Or, I guess I have. Don’t really know, since the bastards took my watch. Karen, have you seen Jenny? We need to get out of here. We’ve already missed our flight by a lot, but I’m sure if we explain the situation…”

                “Come on, Lon. Let’s go out to the lobby. Mom and Dad want to make sure you’re fine.” Karen’s eyes crinkled at the corners when she talked. It was like she was always smiling. She took his arm and, with the nurse’s consent, led him out into a bright, white hallway.

                “What’re Mom and Dad doing here? It was just a little accident. Not a big deal. How did you even find out?” Lon leaned more heavily on his sister than he would have liked to admit, but his legs felt a little weak. Shouldn’t have skipped dinner. I bet Jenny’s starving. White tiles flecked with black and gold passed underneath them, and gave way to beige carpet interlaced with burgundy designs. The sterile white walls melted into a clean goldenrod, and Lon ran his fingers over it half-heartedly, letting the ridges in the wall treatment scrape his fingernails.

                “Next of kin, Lonnie. They knew you wouldn’t be able to drive home, so they just checked your records and found my number. I told Mom and Dad,” Karen’s voice was as smooth as river rock, and it calmed Lon’s nerves a bit. When they reached the lobby, Lon was so tired he could barely hug his mother. He sat with a thump. “Do you want some water or something, Lon? A soda?”

                “Ahhh…Pepsi, please. If you could.” He managed a weak smile, and turned toward his mother. “Mom? Where’s Jenny? Did they already release her?”

                “I am going to go help your sister, honey. You just sit here and talk to Dad for a minute, okay?” The two women hurried out, and a lump formed in Lon’s throat. Something wasn’t right, and he could feel it.  The men sat across from each other in the hospital lobby, studying the patterns in the carpet with scholarly care. Seconds passed in silence, ticked off by the oversized clock on the opposite wall. Tick…Tock…Tick…Tock….

                “So, Dad…what’s up?”  Lon tried to fake cheer, but his voice sounded flat and strained.

                “Lon…well, son, I need to tell you something, but first you have to make me a promise.”

                Tears began forming at the corners of Lon’s eyes. Tick…..Tock……Tick…….Tock……

                “What is it, Dad?”

                “I need you to promise me you’ll let your sister to stay with you for the next few days. Can you do that?”

                Tick….Tock….Tick….Tock….

                “Well, the apartment’s sort of small. I don’t know where she’d sleep…”

                “The couch will be fine, son. Karen’s already packed a bag, too.”

                “She came prepared, huh?”

                “You know Karen. She would have been a boy scout-“

                “-If they hadn’t figured out she wasn’t a boy. Yeah, I know.”

                Tick…Tock…

                “Dad…what’s…?”

Tick…Tock….Tick……..Tock……………

                “This is going to be hard, son. I know that. Just so you know, we’re all here just to help you. Anything you need…” Tick Tock Tick Tock Tick Tock….

                “Dad?”

Tick……………………………………………………..

                “It’s Jenny.”

                Tock.

But it’s not for the reasons I should be.

It’s not because I’ll never get into UT with these grades, because I’m not sure if I can pay off my credit card, or because I am dealing with rebuilding my relationship with my dad.

It’s because I can’t write.

Yeah, after all this time, taking breaks, working on stuff that was really important and vital to my survival, writing scenes and stories and poems and shifts…I have nothing. There’s nothing in my blood anymore. I think that’s what it is; since I turned my back on the negative feelings that consumed my life during the heights of my writing career, I have come to find that it is very difficult to not only make time for writing, but also to make inspiration. I’ve tried all my old tricks: starting with just dialogue, playing word games, writing down random sentences, reading new works, exposing myself to new materials…everything. Nothing sparks that hunger in me right now.

Normally my words choose me. They pick me out of the crowd and come streaming out of my mouth, with my hands working hard to keep up. That’s because, even more than a writer, I am a storyteller. I tell stories. Usually I tell my stories only to myself, but sometimes I share them in written form. Lately, though, I have no stories to tell. It’s like the well dried up. I don’t know if it’s because I haven’t spent enough time alone lately, or if it’s because caffeine is so readily available, or if it’s because a bottle of cheap blackberry wine doesn’t quite do it for me anymore..but for some reason, my stories just stopped. They went away, and I haven’t seen them lately.

If you have any ideas as to where they went, please, let me know. I need to find them. I will survive no matter what, but without stories, I don’t know how to live.