Melotriste

Melotriste

The full moon shines from the dreary night sky.  I lie on the ground outside, my family’s straw-made hut a few feet behind me.  I brush my finger through my thin black hair, and rub my itchy tanned nose.  I look down at the piece of loincloth covering me, my only clothing.  There is a slight breeze outside.  I see the hairs on my arm begin to rise, and feel a chill run up my back.  All the same, I don’t want to go back in.  I prefer the peace and quiet of the early night, the darkness surrounding me, the comfort of being all alone in the evening’s tranquility.

I look to the right of the moon, and there I see the cohort of stars that form the constellation Melotriste.  I glare at the two golden stars, and the arc of five fire red stars below them.  I feel the stars pulling me toward them, as if they want me to rise and join them in the ebony sky.  As I breathe in the constellation, I think of the story my father told me, of how these stars came to form a group.

Long ago lived two stars in the sky, Serene and Brilly.  Serene and Brilly had grown up next to each other.  Each evening they would come out, shining, filled with excitement to see each other again.  They would talk for hours, laugh, and tell each other about their days’ adventures.  Over the years, Serene and Brilly’s childish bond molded into a romance.  After hundreds of years of friendship, they decided to become one under the moon’s law. 

Serene and Brilly were married on a cloudy night, allowing them to feel alone, hidden from all the other stars in the sky.  As per tradition, only the moon was present to formally unite them for eternity.  Side-by-side, next to the glowing full moon, they felt pure harmony between them.  After the ceremony, they retreated to a location far away from the other stars. The following evening they returned to their families, two separate starts yet joint forever.

Several hundred years later, Serene and Brilly had their first child, Jallord.  Followed by Jallord were five other children, Marny, Estrelle, Toile, Oro, and Lune.  Serene loved all of her children with such passion, such devotion, such power, it was like nothing anyone in the entire universe had seen before.  As the children grew older, Serene reveled in watching them change and begin to shine brighter each evening.

During their first centuries together, Serene and Brilly’s unity remained strong.  Yet, as time passed, Serene began to notice changes in Brilly.  He was distant, and she could sense that his love for her was not the same.  They did not laugh or share stories as they had as children, and Brilly moved further and further away from her.  With Brilly’s silence, Serene could feel her heart breaking more every evening, as she felt the vow they had taken under the moon slowly diminishing.

Serene swallowed her sadness and continued to care for her children.  With each night of Brilly’s silence, Serene felt a hot ball of fury, anguish, and utter grief grow within her.  One evening, Brilly approached Serene closely, something he had not done for ages.  He said he had come to her for forgiveness for his behavior of the last centuries; that he was sorry for abandoning her.  Serene turned to Brilly, and could not speak.  She felt the years of sadness break out of her, in rows of light bursts, red, yellow, and orange, flickering with ire and fury.  The light bursts formed an upside down arc under Serene and Brilly.  Serene did not understand from where the light had come or what it meant.  She tried to speak to Brilly, but she could not move.  She saw that Brilly was also attempting to speak to her, but could not move either.  The upside down arc of light bursts below them shined with incredible intensity, breathing off a firey air that kept Serene and Brilly frozen in the intense heat.  They remained there, uncomfortable, inert, powerless, still, for eternity.

I retold this story to myself in my head as I stared at Melotriste.  I thought of Serene and Brilly, their love, and their ill-fated ending.  As my thoughts ran, I stood up, abandoning my peaceful spot outside of my home.  I walked toward the straw hut, with an intense longing to enter and share my day’s adventures with my family. 

Onion and garlic flavored chewing gum

Onion and garlic flavored chewing gum

Dear Bill,

I got your package in the mail last week.  And I must say, I wasn’t surprised.  After the artichoke flavored chewing gum in August, the olive flavored gum in November, and the oyster flavored gum in January, it was no shock to me that you would send me onion and garlic flavored chewing gum this Valentine’s Day.  By the way, thanks for the note mentioning our little kiss in the movie theater sophomore year…I have fond memories of that evening…it adds an air of excitement to our lifelong friendship.

So, anyway, since you got your job at Trident, you’ve really done some amazing thing.  Your creativity, your willingness to take risks, your “fuck you all” nature, that’s really benefited you.  You even won “employee of the month” after that awesome presentation on why kids will surely buy steak flavored gum!  Each time I get a new idea of yours in the mail, I open the package with such ferocity…you wouldn’t believe it, Bill, I’m like a dog in heat, begging each stick to bang me and explode its flavor into me, opening up my inner taste buds and filling me with its zest.

As I write this, I’m gnawing on a piece of garlic flavored gum.  I must say, it’s completely out of this world.  Last week, I set the garlic aside, and tore into the onion.  As I chewed that first piece, I had no time to relish in its originality, since I suddenly remembered I had a meeting with a coworker at Teresa’s Café downtown.  I grabbed my coat (even though it was 60 degrees out - the onion fumes must have gotten to me), and bolted out the door.  On the crowded subway (oh, rush hour, how I loathe thee), I attempted conversation with a hottie in a Hilfiger suit.  He was holding on to the bar next to mine, yet he made a face of agony (like nothing I’d ever seen, I swear), and turned away.  What was the problem?  Was my makeup smeared?  Did I have a stain on my blouse (I mean, in a $400 silk Versace blouse, what does a little stain matter?).  I recovered my poise though, and although my ego was hurt, I stood with confidence the rest of the subway ride, pretending to have important things on my mind.

Once at my stop, I briskly walked out of the subway and up the stairs to the street.  I entered the café just on time (lucky me!), and met my colleague at the table.  He was sitting there sipping a ginger ale (or was it a vodka tonic?  Was it THAT kind of meeting?).  I held out my hand and gave him a firm handshake (a woman must make her confidence known at all times), greeted him, and jumped right into business (with the possibility of ordering a Merlot lingering in the back of my mind). 

About fifteen minute into the meeting, my coworker, Joey, excused himself.  I saw him head toward the bathroom.  A few minute later, I saw him exit the bathroom, and head straight for the door.  And Bill, you know what?  He walked straight out the door.  I had never witnessed such shocking, unprofessional behavior in my life.  I sat by myself at the table, chewing the nearly flavorless onion gum.  After about a half hour, I asked for the check (thanks for leaving your share, Joey!) and solemnly walked out of the restaurant. 

What had just happened?  How would I explain this to my boss?  How would I finish my report for Monday?  I needed some key figures from that bastard Joey!

Luckily though, none of that mattered.  As I walked down the street I felt my tongue begin to swell, and my mouth begin to heat up.  I felt my tongue crowding into my teeth, growing larger by the moment.  My mouth felt like a fire ball, and breathing was starting to become difficult.  The last thing I remember is seeing an old lady walking past me with barking miniature poodle in her arms.  I tried to grab out to her, but I honestly don’t remember if I reached her.

The next morning, I awoke in the hospital.  There were flowers all around me, an IV in my left hand, and I was dressed in one of those ugly hospital gowns you see on TV.  I turned to my left and saw Joey.  His had an expression of intense guilt on his face.  “I never should have left you; this never would have happened if I hadn’t snuck out like that,” he said.  “Why did you sneak out of the restaurant, Joey?” I uttered sleepily.  “Well, frankly, your breath fucking stunk,” he said. I thought about Joey’s words, and shrugged my shoulders.  It felt wrong to feel offended over silly words in the hospital, when I should be thankful I wasn’t dead and all.  “What happened to me?” I asked Joey.  “You had an allergic reaction to something, and you passed out in the street,” he said sadly.  How odd, I thought to myself.  All I’d eaten that day was an apple (red delicious, my favorite!) and I popped in a piece of your new onion gum, Bill, to ebb my hunger a bit before dinner.  “Stranger things have happened,” I thought to myself.

Well, Bill, I’m just going on and on here.  What I really wanted to tell you is that Joey and I just got engaged!  After his visit at the hospital, we started to chat online, and realized just how much we have in common.  I know it’s quick, but when it’s true love, it’s true love, what can I say.  I don’t know why, but I feel like you’re somehow connected to this relationship, in a weird way.  Maybe because you were my first crush in high school (as if you didn’t know!).  I don’t know, whatever it is, I felt the need to write you a special letter, to thank you for the gum (Trident is lucky to have an employee like you!) and to let you be the first to know about me and Joey (I plan on waiting exactly 72 more hours before posting it on Facebook).  So, Bill, I hope to see you at the wedding.  You can pass out some of your gum samples if you’d like!  

Love,

Sally

Back to school

Back to school  

As I approach the building, I can’t help but cringe.  So many people, so much noise, so much chaos. 

I turn around, and see a row of houses on the opposite side of the street.  Behind them, the roofs of other, larger houses, peak out.  I wonder what the people inside are doing, how they are feeling.  In the red split-level on my left, I picture a woman in a beige bath robe, sipping coffee while sitting at her round, wooden, pale brown kitchen table.  The sun shines on her face through a small window, and as she swallows, she wonders what the day will bring.  In the brick two-story house next door I picture a man sitting in his bedroom, on his bed.  He wears a blue and white checkered button down and khaki pants an inch too short.  He is sitting with his head down, resting his face in his hands, his bare feet lying still on the floor, legs spread out.  He is resisting the urge to cry, making grunting noises instead.  How will he tell his wife he lost all of the money?  What will she say to him? 

As my imagination goes wild, I look at my right hand.  In it lies an unsharpened pencil, which my mother handed to me hurriedly when she dropped me off a few minutes before.  As she handed me the pencil, she quickly uttered “Bye sweetie, have a good day.  I hope you write something great with this new pencil.”  The pencil is a shiny silver, with multi-colored hearts on it, the ideal back to school gift for a thirteen –year-old girl, in my mother’s eyes.  As if this pencil will do me any good.  Little does my mother know what awaits me inside the colossal building behind me. 

I hear the bell ring, and can’t help but sigh and swallow the dread emanating from within me.  I think about my mother driving away in our silver minivan.  She was probably relieved to get rid of me, to see me off after two months of non-stop kid.  I bet she drove straight to Dunkin Donuts.  I envision her seeping her tea bag in and out of the Styrofoam cup, sitting relaxed in front of the sticky table, then taking a massive bite out of a vanilla frosted donut with sprinkles.  Those pastel sprinkles, that perfect hole in the donut.  It’s just not fair.   I remember begging for sweets all summer, only to be denied, my mother saying “Honey, those things are horrible for you!” 

I turn around again, facing the large building, and seeing the tumult begin, students packing in the front door like little ants racing to that long lost bread crumb on the ground.  I take a deep breath, tighten the ribbon holding my shiny blond hair into a side pony tail, pat down my cheerleading skirt, and straighten my sweater.  I see them approaching from the left.  Sally is the first to run up to me “Oh my God, hi Mary, can you believe we’re back here?  What a bummer!”  After Mary comes my boyfriend, Steve, captain of the football team.  He whispers the perfunctory “Hey babe” and rests his bulky arm over my shoulders.  The rest of the posy follows behind.  I put on my biggest fake smile, my most-popular-girl image reflecting off of my sparkly, white, perfectly straight teeth.  As I walk into the school a sheet of invisible sadness drops over my entire being, disconnecting me from the world.  

Book Review - And the Mountains Echoed, Khaled Hosseini

           

Have you ever felt like you didn’t belong somewhere?  Like something was just off.  Like there was something missing, or perhaps too much of something.  I think most of us have had this feeling at some point in our lives, and we just shake it off, attributing it to “having a bad day” or it being a “weird situation.”  But imagine if you just couldn’t shake this feeling, if it were there every minute of every day, and you just couldn’t put your finger on what was causing it.  That is exactly how Pari feels in Khaled Hosseini’s And the Mountains Echoed.

            And the Mountains Echoed is Hosseini’s third work of fiction, after his debut novel the The Kite Runner (2003, later adapted into a film) and his second novel A Thousand Splendid Suns (2007).  Hosseini is Afghani-American (born in Afghanistan, moved to the US in 1980), and worked as a physician before becoming a well-renowned novelist.  Hosseini won a great deal of fame from his debut novel The Kite Runner in 2003, and therefore his third novel was welcomed with much anticipation and excitement.

            Pari Wahdati is the central and connected character of many in And the Mountains Echoed.  Born to a poor family in the run-down village of Shadbagh, at age three Pari is as curious and rambunctious as any child.   Pari enjoys a simple childhood in the town of Shadbagh in Afghanistan.  She lives with her father, older brother, younger half-brother, and step-mother.   With her mother having died during her birth, Pari’s older brother Abdullah, seven years her senior, is a central part of her life, playing the role of the mother she lacks.  He takes care of her, brings her gifts, and loves her as if she were his own daughter.  The family lives in poverty, and their constant hardship is what leads Pari’s father to sell her to the couple his brother-in-law works for in far-away Kabul.  This decision inevitably changes the shape of not only Pari’s life, but every life had touched up until that point, and every life she would touch in the future. 

            Having loved Hosseini’s two previous novels, I eagerly awaited my turn to get my hands on this book (there were 40 requests ahead of me at the library for the three or so copies).  To say I loved it as much as Hosseini’s other works would be a lie.  The characters and the plot simply didn’t hold the same intensity; they didn’t grab you and shake you up like Amir’s deception in Kite Runner or Mariam’s sacrifice in A Thousand Splendid Suns.  I wouldn’t go as far to say that I disliked the novel, but Hosseini set his bar high, and he just couldn’t reach the level he did in his previous works.  Now, what I did LOVE about this novel was the way Hosseini connected the different people in Pari’s life (and not JUST her family), adding engaging side-plots with their own interesting relationships and conflicts.  From the Greek doctor who moved into the house in Kabul where Pari grew up, to Pari’s step-uncle and his relationship with Pari’s adoptive father (also his employer) in Kabul, Hosseini interlinked everyone in a creative and meaningful manner.  In some cases, these sub-plots also shed light on the powerful political climate of Kabul in the 1980’s and the war-damaged Kabul of the early 21^st century.  In other cases, they touched upon traditional conflict, such parent-child relationships and dealing with a mental illness.  Hosseini’s ability to effectively integrate and connect multiple viewpoints showed that although the novel was a bit of a drag at times, his narrative technique may be enough make this a winner. 

            Did I LOVE this book (like I LOVED Hosseini’s first two novels)?  Heck no.  Did I enjoy it?  Yeah, for the most part.  I think this is a worthy read for any fan of Hosseini’s first two novels, and any fan of popular fiction books.  Although it had its dull points, Hosseini took one event in one character’s life and created a web of enticing themes and conflicts, at least one of which is sure to grab any reader.  This novel also ends on a high note, showing that although it may torment you your whole life, that irking feeling of not belonging can bloom into something beautiful that, in the end, brings pure joy and warms your heart.    

HARVEY THE CAT AT SUNRISE

HARVEY THE CAT AT SUNRISE

I don’t know why she won’t just get out of bed.  I mean, she’s just sitting there.  I’m just SO EXCITED.  I NEED her to get up.  I just don’t know what to do…maybe if I just step over there and make a little scratchy noise with my paws…that might get her attention.

Harvey stands up an all fours in the corner of the bedroom, and walks toward the bed.  He knows that what he is about it do is NOT going to work in his favor, yet he can’t help but try, just one last time.  He lifts his paws, effortlessly extends his claws and makes the softest contact with the box spring when…POW!  Water comes shooting at him, full speed.

Oh dear God, why, why, why.  Water, the stinging feel of this horrid liquid spreading over my pristine and laboriously groomed fur.  Oh, it feels like blades digging under my skin and tearing my veins apart, like nails scratching a chalkboard for eternity, like the incessant loud beeps of a smoke alarm that will just not turn off.

Harvey retreats, sprinting out of the bedroom, and down the stairs, to safety.  When he hops off the last step, he immediately attends to the affected area with his tongue. 

Oh dear tongue, dear saliva, please, please, wash away this nastiness.  Cleanse me of this dreadful water!  

Harvey sits there for several minutes, licking frantically, until he can lick no more. He sits in silence, trying to recall what happened and why.  Sitting just below the bottom step, he looks up the staircase, visualizing what is up there.  He knows, yes, he knows.

Oh, I still just cannot understand, I cannot get this image of her just LYING there in bed out of my mind.  Why oh why must she lie there?  Does she not see the sun is starting to peek its little head from the clouds?  That soon it will be light?  This is prime running time, the time to be awake, aware, explore, enjoy, live.  She must get up.  She must!

Harvey looks up the staircase at his demise.  Yet, he cannot help himself.  The urge to try again, to give it just one more try, it is too strong.  He stealthily climbs the first step.

Yes, this time it will work.  A little noise, a little jump on the bed, a tap on the head, that will let her know, will MAKE her realize that it is truly time to rise.  

Harvey slowly ascends the first few steps, then quickly trots up the remaining stairs, runs into the room, and hurdles himself on the bed, launching himself onto the delicious curly hair of his master.  Before he can settle his claws into the sweet tangles, he hears a loud noise, and feels himself being thrown off the bed.  Harvey straightens himself out mid-air, then swiftly lands on the carpet.  He immediately breaks into a sprint, heading down the staircase.

I have failed again.  She will never understand my reason.  She only sleeps, sleeps, sleeps.  I am defeated, I have reached my end point.  I must wallow in this loss, sit here in silence, until she awakes. 

The minutes tick by, but for Harvey time is not passing.  Patience is something he cannot understand.  He looks up the staircase, willing himself to resist, to stay down, to not bear further punishment.  He tries to hold back, he uses all of his might, yet he feels his paw lifting toward the bottom stair….

Just one more try, just one more try.  If I can just give her one little nudge, she will see…

WHY?

WHY?

So, I decided to start this blog.  And of course, I’m wondering “Why?”  Why start a silly old blog?  In all honesty, I’ve always thought that blogs were cheesy, corny, dorky, etc.  I’ve never really seen the point in doing something like this, nor really felt like anyone would read it.  Yet, here I am.

I guess there are a few things that inspired me.  First, I realized that writing is COOL.  Well, I always knew it was cool.  I tear up novels like nobody’s business, indicating a clear adoration for the written word.  Yet, I think it was reading some other people’s “stuff” (aka written work) that got me going and thinking about ME doing some pleasure writing.

A few months ago my boyfriend shared with me a short story he wrote, entitle “The Man with the Hat.”  I don’t want to ruin it, but it was detective-esque short story, and it actually succeeded in ending in a cliffhanger fashion, leaving the reader wondering what may have happened.   And it was SO GOOD.  The dialogue was amazing, and I was just so IMPRESSED with how he captured the quintessential “detective talk” that I so loved when watching Law and Order and reading James Patterson.  And reading his story just made me tingle a bit.

Another thing that got me going was during one of my classes in school.  For my Severe Reading and Writing Disorders class, we had to write 5-paragraph essays (7^th grader style yo!) at the beginning of the semester.  Now, I bet your thinking that I’m going to go all into how writing the essay inspired me, and blah blah blah.  But no, it was editing someone ELSE’S writing that actually inspired me.  One of my classmates wrote a funny, witty, charming essay on “the irony of her likes and dislikes”  (e.g., I love working out, but I hate running; I love cooking shows, but I hate cooking).  She was just so good at capturing that “ironic feel,” and I thought it was just amazing.  Especially in comparison to my ever-so sappy essay on running the Disney Marathon...what a boring, predictable narrative, seriously!

Now, do I propose to write amazing dialogue, or show my witty, spunky side with this blog?  Nah, I’m not ready to give myself that much credit yet.  Sure, it would be cool…but I’m not going to count on it.  The idea here, for me, is not to show off my writing skills (which are pretty mediocre, to be frank) or to share anything of particular importance….I guess the idea is to just create some art, have fun with words, and enjoy creating the words, instead of just sucking them in, as my ravenous-reader self does.  

And yes, I plan on using some super cool pictures and video and fonts and links and ugly florescent colors along the way.  How could I not?

So that is why I am starting this blog…in a nutshell.  ‘Til next time…