There have been many things in life that I thought, some were important and some not so much. When I set out to America to make my life better I thought that all of my previous problems would stay behind me. How was I to know that they could follow me over the vast expanse of the Pacific and into the big city of New York where the possibilities are endless?
Now, three years after my arrival here the city noise is a dull roar in my ears, my olfactory senses have grown accustomed to disregarding the sharp pungent odors, and my back has become old and perpetually sore from long restless nights on park benches. This was not the America I had come searching for.
Day in and day out, the cars rush by and create murals of taxi cab yellow. The people keep their heads up and walk with a pace that is determined and set. What are they speeding to get to? Their families waiting at home, their nice warm home cooked dinners, their fancy high paying jobs? Me, I walk slowly for what is in my cart is all I possess and Phala, my husband, always ambles beside me. God must laugh at him though. His name means prosperity and as of now that is sure one thing that we are missing. All of our possessions are contained in a 4x3 box on wheels.
It carries, two threadbare blankets, many cans picked up from the sidewalk or dug out of trash cans in hope of the 5 cent recycling refund, clothes (even if they don't fit, they can be used as pillows), jewelry that we purchase cheap and attempt to resale so our stomachs do not ache with hunger, and the rest of the space is occupied by useless knick knacks we never have use for but are too afraid to dispose of lest we find something to do with them.
It was not that we tried to really make a name for ourselves here and failed, it was that when we came here we were never really offered the chance. We came without a penny not really leaving us much to build on. It is easy to start from something and climb but when you start from nothing the first step is impossible. If you never get passed it, you are as good as stuck. Unfortunately, that was our predicament.
I am surprised that Phala is still with me. I am no longer pretty, my hair is ratty and has lost its sheen, my face aged with deep wrinkles, and my demeanor no longer as pleasant. If he left me though, he would have no where else to go. Therefore he stays and I am grateful because we keep each other company and pull one another through the rough, trying times. Some days I look into his eyes and I can see our childhood, the bright sun, the eternal happiness, and our once love.
I step into the street and Phala pulls me back out of the way of a speeding car. Of course it would never stop. Instead, it just keeps speeding through life, aimlessly going in a direction. It supposes its destiny lies ahead and will flee if it is not reached quickly enough. But for me, I stand still here in America, the place I had once thought held promise.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
WA-6 Snapshot Assignment
There have been many things in life that I thought, some were important and some not so much. When I set out to America to make my life better I thought that all of my previous problems would stay behind me. How was I to know that they could follow me over the vast expanse of the Pacific and into the big city of New York where the possibilities are endless? The answer was that I didn’t. However, I soon learned that when you assume things, nine times out of ten you will be terribly disappointed.
Now, three years after my arrival here the city noise is a dull roar in my ears, my olfactory senses have grown accustomed to disregarding the sharp pungent odors, and my back has become old and perpetually sore from long restless nights on park benches. This was not the America I had come searching for.
Day in and day out, the cars rush by and create murals of taxi cab yellow and plain boring white. The people keep their heads up and walk with a pace that is determined and set. What are they speeding to get to? Their families waiting at home, their nice warm home cooked dinners, their fancy high paying jobs? Me, I walk slowly for what is in my cart is all I possess and Phala, my husband, always ambles beside me. God must laugh at him though. His name means prosperity and as of now that is sure one thing that we are missing. All of our possessions are contained in a 4x3 box on wheels. It carries, two threadbare blankets, many cans picked up from the sidewalk or dug out of trash cans in hope of the 5 cent recycling refund, clothes (even if they don't fit, they can be used as pillows), jewelry that we purchase cheap and attempt to resale so our stomachs do not ache with hunger, and the rest of the space is occupied by useless knick knacks we never have use for but are too afraid to dispose of lest we find something to do with them.
I am surprised that Phala is still with me. I am no longer pretty, my hair is ratty and has lost its sheen, my face aged with deep wrinkles, and my demeanor no longer as pleasant. If he left me though, he would have no where else to go. Therefore he stays and I am grateful because we keep each other company and pull one another through the rough trying times. Some days I look into his eyes and I can see our childhood, the bright sun, the eternal happiness, and our once love.
I step into the street and Phala pulls me back out of the way of a speeding car. Of course it would never stop. Instead, it just keeps speeding through life, aimlessly going in a direction. It supposes its destiny lies ahead and will flee if it is not reached quickly enough. But for me, I stand still here in America, the place I had once thought held promise.
Now, three years after my arrival here the city noise is a dull roar in my ears, my olfactory senses have grown accustomed to disregarding the sharp pungent odors, and my back has become old and perpetually sore from long restless nights on park benches. This was not the America I had come searching for.
Day in and day out, the cars rush by and create murals of taxi cab yellow and plain boring white. The people keep their heads up and walk with a pace that is determined and set. What are they speeding to get to? Their families waiting at home, their nice warm home cooked dinners, their fancy high paying jobs? Me, I walk slowly for what is in my cart is all I possess and Phala, my husband, always ambles beside me. God must laugh at him though. His name means prosperity and as of now that is sure one thing that we are missing. All of our possessions are contained in a 4x3 box on wheels. It carries, two threadbare blankets, many cans picked up from the sidewalk or dug out of trash cans in hope of the 5 cent recycling refund, clothes (even if they don't fit, they can be used as pillows), jewelry that we purchase cheap and attempt to resale so our stomachs do not ache with hunger, and the rest of the space is occupied by useless knick knacks we never have use for but are too afraid to dispose of lest we find something to do with them.
I am surprised that Phala is still with me. I am no longer pretty, my hair is ratty and has lost its sheen, my face aged with deep wrinkles, and my demeanor no longer as pleasant. If he left me though, he would have no where else to go. Therefore he stays and I am grateful because we keep each other company and pull one another through the rough trying times. Some days I look into his eyes and I can see our childhood, the bright sun, the eternal happiness, and our once love.
I step into the street and Phala pulls me back out of the way of a speeding car. Of course it would never stop. Instead, it just keeps speeding through life, aimlessly going in a direction. It supposes its destiny lies ahead and will flee if it is not reached quickly enough. But for me, I stand still here in America, the place I had once thought held promise.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
WA-5 Wedding Part 1 and 2
Part 1
(Flower)
My xylem sap was fresh and thin from the light rains. I sucked up the water and it transpired on my light amaranth pink petals. In a beige colored room, a giddy but excessively anxious young woman sat tapping her pedicured foot as she discussed the floral arrangements with her very qualified but extravagantly lavish planner. The color palettes were strewn across the ornate desk and the woman’s eyes flickered betweeen them. Finally, she puckered her Venetian red lips, inhaled a sharp quick breath and jabbed her filed nail at the custom group that read, Amaranth Pink Bouquet. “I believe this will do,” she said.
Slice. Everything disappeared. I regained consciousness the cream colored linen lined woven basket was brimming with detached petals. Sunlight was streaming in through the stain glass windows depicting Mother Mary and falling down across old wooden pews. A man sat hunched over the mighty organs, practicing Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. The bride was getting dressed and so far she was wearing something old and something new. Her shoes were borrowed and she was looking for her broach that was blue. In a room, the groom and his best men were lounging around in their white tee’s obviously oblivious to the quickly encroaching time. Off somewhere the ring bearer and flower girl were playing hide and go seek, soiling their new outfits before the start of the ceremony.
The air was becoming thick with anticipation as long lost family became reunited and the chapel began to fill for the start of the service. The organs began to sing a song and the chatter fell to a hushed tone as seats began to be occupied. With each step, the basket became lighter and emptier. Sticky fingers plucked me out and dropped me mercilessly to the floor. High heel spike after high heel spike proceeded to skewer me as I lay bleeding Amaranth Pink. The pain subsided and the music faded. The group looked like a black and white cookie, V formation of geese. “I do” was said by the pair, the couple was wed, everyone stood up, stampeded, and that was the last of my memory.
Part 2
(Bride)
I sat tapping my foot, constantly glancing at the clock. I needed to pick a floral arrangement and quick. My eyes scanned from one set to another and finally I picked an alluring Amaranth Pink color. I took a deep, stress relieving breath and counted to three.
I didn't really feel too special, instead I felt exhausted, tense and dithery. The calming sound of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March relaxed my racing heart. The church looked truly beautiful, instead of my eyes taking it all in appreciatively they wearily recognized all the hard work and effort put into it. At least soon I would be able to unwind on the beaches of Malpais and put some color back into my drained face. Grandma Dottie's blue broach was nowhere to be found. I located a nearby chair and sat for a moment. I hadn’t seen him all day and I began to wonder what he might be doing, hopefully doing a last minute shave or ironing his shirt, at least something productive.
From my room in the back the steady noise of chatter began to increase in decibels and my heartbeat regained its dashing pace. I picked up the small wicker basket that held the Amaranth Pink petals and placed it into Eloise’s small fragile fingers. The flower girl led the procession. I saw each petal laying on the carpeted aisle, many had been pierced by high heeled shoes and their blood stained the carpet. I tried to concentrate on the service but my mind was pulled back to the petals. Each one came to signify a part of my life that I was going to leave behind as soon as I said the words “I do”. A petal with a pierced heart was my first love. There went some of my freedom. “Two shall become as one” and there went a piece of my identity. They were scattered on the floor distracting me, I looked to the right and there was the man that I was willing to sacrifice all of the things the petals represented for. I looked up to see Mother Mary watching from the stained glass window above and I could feel that our smiles were worn with identical happiness.
(Flower)
My xylem sap was fresh and thin from the light rains. I sucked up the water and it transpired on my light amaranth pink petals. In a beige colored room, a giddy but excessively anxious young woman sat tapping her pedicured foot as she discussed the floral arrangements with her very qualified but extravagantly lavish planner. The color palettes were strewn across the ornate desk and the woman’s eyes flickered betweeen them. Finally, she puckered her Venetian red lips, inhaled a sharp quick breath and jabbed her filed nail at the custom group that read, Amaranth Pink Bouquet. “I believe this will do,” she said.
Slice. Everything disappeared. I regained consciousness the cream colored linen lined woven basket was brimming with detached petals. Sunlight was streaming in through the stain glass windows depicting Mother Mary and falling down across old wooden pews. A man sat hunched over the mighty organs, practicing Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. The bride was getting dressed and so far she was wearing something old and something new. Her shoes were borrowed and she was looking for her broach that was blue. In a room, the groom and his best men were lounging around in their white tee’s obviously oblivious to the quickly encroaching time. Off somewhere the ring bearer and flower girl were playing hide and go seek, soiling their new outfits before the start of the ceremony.
The air was becoming thick with anticipation as long lost family became reunited and the chapel began to fill for the start of the service. The organs began to sing a song and the chatter fell to a hushed tone as seats began to be occupied. With each step, the basket became lighter and emptier. Sticky fingers plucked me out and dropped me mercilessly to the floor. High heel spike after high heel spike proceeded to skewer me as I lay bleeding Amaranth Pink. The pain subsided and the music faded. The group looked like a black and white cookie, V formation of geese. “I do” was said by the pair, the couple was wed, everyone stood up, stampeded, and that was the last of my memory.
Part 2
(Bride)
I sat tapping my foot, constantly glancing at the clock. I needed to pick a floral arrangement and quick. My eyes scanned from one set to another and finally I picked an alluring Amaranth Pink color. I took a deep, stress relieving breath and counted to three.
I didn't really feel too special, instead I felt exhausted, tense and dithery. The calming sound of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March relaxed my racing heart. The church looked truly beautiful, instead of my eyes taking it all in appreciatively they wearily recognized all the hard work and effort put into it. At least soon I would be able to unwind on the beaches of Malpais and put some color back into my drained face. Grandma Dottie's blue broach was nowhere to be found. I located a nearby chair and sat for a moment. I hadn’t seen him all day and I began to wonder what he might be doing, hopefully doing a last minute shave or ironing his shirt, at least something productive.
From my room in the back the steady noise of chatter began to increase in decibels and my heartbeat regained its dashing pace. I picked up the small wicker basket that held the Amaranth Pink petals and placed it into Eloise’s small fragile fingers. The flower girl led the procession. I saw each petal laying on the carpeted aisle, many had been pierced by high heeled shoes and their blood stained the carpet. I tried to concentrate on the service but my mind was pulled back to the petals. Each one came to signify a part of my life that I was going to leave behind as soon as I said the words “I do”. A petal with a pierced heart was my first love. There went some of my freedom. “Two shall become as one” and there went a piece of my identity. They were scattered on the floor distracting me, I looked to the right and there was the man that I was willing to sacrifice all of the things the petals represented for. I looked up to see Mother Mary watching from the stained glass window above and I could feel that our smiles were worn with identical happiness.
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