I have no name. Names are for people with friends, family, jobs, and lives. To deserve a name you must have people that care about you. I’ve lost count of the number of people that walk past me and ignore me. Invisible. I am the sidewalk. Jobless and homeless and alone. I am going to die soon. I am not ill, or in danger. I have lost the will to live. Couples walk by, families walk by, friends walk by, business associates walk by, bicyclists, drivers, dog walkers all walk by. I have fallen into the asphalt and cement and litter and now I blend in perfectly. The scene around me could be anything. I’ve seen it all. A van races by, a man in expensive shoes holds the hand of a woman with an expensive hand bag. They could help me, but they won’t. It’s midday and the city is alive. I’m being lulled to sleep and the words around me are yanked up in volume.
“Could he bathe?”
“Pity. Letting that happen to yourself.”
“Don’t pity them, then they’ll never learn. They don’t need any financial support, what they need is motivation. He’s done this to himself and he has no one else to blame.”
“Still, maybe we should give him some change?”
“Please. Don’t bore me with your jokes.”
Laughing. Then quiet. Do they think I can’t hear? That the rattling in my head has made an impenetrable sound barrier? And what did they mean “Don’t pity them, then they’ll never learn” as if I’m some disobedient dog to be trained along with all the other inadequate humans. I would be furious with those two if it was only them that had the audacity to say that. But it’s not. It’s everyone. There’s no point in being angry with the world. I’ve tried it, that sure didn’t get me out of here.
I used to ask for change. I was one of the people that perpetually appeared on your corner, making it impossible to ignore. Eventually I wore you down and your hurried apologies of “No money on me today” grew less and less believable, to the point you’d put in change just to stop the charade with yourself. But playing on people guilt and generosity led to money that was always rare and never enough. Once in passing I heard a man saying as if it was advice I was meant to overhear:“At least he could play an instrument or some other talent and earn money.”Perfect idea, except for my inability to find and instrument and teach myself to play. Also difficult due to the arm I lost in the war. But really pal, I appreciate the consideration.
Do all these people really think I chose this? I’m 23. My five year plan held me being done with my degree and working at some hoity toity company by now. I’ve done all I can think to do, but my permanent limp, lacking left arm, and missing left eye have made it increasingly more problematic to pull myself out of this rut. So say what you want of me, like I said I know I’ll die anyways. But please, take this as a dying man’s last wish, don’t ever think I chose this.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
WA 6 draft1
I have no name. Names are for people with friends, family, jobs, and lives. To deserve a name you must have people that care about you. I’ve lost count of the number of people that walk past me and ignore me. Invisible. I am the sidewalk. Jobless and homeless and alone. I am going to die soon. I am not ill, or in danger. I have lost the will to live. Couples walk by, families walk by, friends walk by, business associates walk by, bicyclists, drivers, dog walkers all walk by. I have fallen into the asphalt and cement and litter and now I blend in perfectly. The scene around me could be anything. I’ve seen it all. A van races by, a man in expensive shoes holds the hand of a woman with an expensive hand bag. They could help me, but they won’t. It’s midday and the city is alive. I’m being lulled to sleep and the words around me are yanked up in volume.
“Could he bathe?”
“Pity. Letting that happen to yourself.”
“Don’t pity them, then they’ll never learn. They don’t need any financial support, what they need is motivation. He’s done this to himself and he has no one else to blame.”
“Still, maybe we should give him some change?”
“Please. Don’t bore me with your jokes.”
Laughing. Then quiet. Do they think I can’t hear? That the rattling in my head has made an impenetrable sound barrier? And what did they mean “Don’t pity them, then they’ll never learn” as if I’m some dog to be trained along with all the other feral humans. I would be furious with those two if it was only them that had the audacity to say that. But it’s not. It’s everyone. There’s no point in being angry with the world. I’ve tried it, that sure didn’t get me out of here.
I used to ask for change. I was one of the people that perpetually appeared on your corner, making it impossible to ignore. Eventually I wore you down and your hurried apologies of “No money on me today” grew less and less believable, to the point you’d put in change just to stop the charade with yourself. But playing on people guilt and generosity led to money that was always rare and never enough. Once in passing I heard a man saying as if it was advice I was meant to overhear:
“At least he could play an instrument or some other talent and earn money.”
Perfect idea, except for my inability to find and instrument and teach myself to play. Also difficult due to the arm I lost in the war. But really pal, I appreciate the consideration.
Do all these people really think I chose this? I’m 23. My five year plan held me being done with my degree and working at some hoity toity company by now. I’ve done all I can think to do, but my permanent limp, lacking left arm, and lacking left eye have made it increasingly more problematic to pull myself out of this rut. So say what you want of me, like I said I know I’ll die anyways. But please, take this as a dying mans last wish, don’t ever think I chose this.
“Could he bathe?”
“Pity. Letting that happen to yourself.”
“Don’t pity them, then they’ll never learn. They don’t need any financial support, what they need is motivation. He’s done this to himself and he has no one else to blame.”
“Still, maybe we should give him some change?”
“Please. Don’t bore me with your jokes.”
Laughing. Then quiet. Do they think I can’t hear? That the rattling in my head has made an impenetrable sound barrier? And what did they mean “Don’t pity them, then they’ll never learn” as if I’m some dog to be trained along with all the other feral humans. I would be furious with those two if it was only them that had the audacity to say that. But it’s not. It’s everyone. There’s no point in being angry with the world. I’ve tried it, that sure didn’t get me out of here.
I used to ask for change. I was one of the people that perpetually appeared on your corner, making it impossible to ignore. Eventually I wore you down and your hurried apologies of “No money on me today” grew less and less believable, to the point you’d put in change just to stop the charade with yourself. But playing on people guilt and generosity led to money that was always rare and never enough. Once in passing I heard a man saying as if it was advice I was meant to overhear:
“At least he could play an instrument or some other talent and earn money.”
Perfect idea, except for my inability to find and instrument and teach myself to play. Also difficult due to the arm I lost in the war. But really pal, I appreciate the consideration.
Do all these people really think I chose this? I’m 23. My five year plan held me being done with my degree and working at some hoity toity company by now. I’ve done all I can think to do, but my permanent limp, lacking left arm, and lacking left eye have made it increasingly more problematic to pull myself out of this rut. So say what you want of me, like I said I know I’ll die anyways. But please, take this as a dying mans last wish, don’t ever think I chose this.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
WA5 Final Draft
Part 1
There are booms of happiness all around me. I reflect and image of pure joy. A woman in white, a man in a suit, a grand five tear cake, and smiling faces. My intricate grooves and indentations scatter the illustration until it is almost undecipherable, but I know. But no matter how beautiful the scene around me is I am at the center of it. People gasp when they look at me, their faces exclaim praise of my unwavering exquisiteness. My elegant design is flawless. I sit upon a long uninterrupted lustrous neck that cranes to see what’s happening even in the far stretches of the chuppah. I flare outwards into a draping goblet that looks like a facsimile of the bride’s skirt. The wedding procession begins. A young girl walks down in a jittery skipping way. She flings out flower petals and then stumbles and the entire contents of her basket dump out into a pile in the middle of the pathway. Then just as the music is reaching its peak, an older man and the bride step onto the runway. She is donning an eloquent dress and a shimmering veil. She makes it to her fiancé who is sweating bullets. The music cuts off, children are shushed, camcorders are clicked on, and the Rabbi begins. People on both sides of the ceremony settle in for a long wait. A man stands up and fluffs his coat. He exudes fake importance; clearly he has taken the littlest job appointed to him to his head. He walks in my direction. His clammy hands grab me and fumble around. I’m captured! I shine with excitement what are they doing, will they honor me as they should. I am handed to the Rabbi who handles me with much more care. He holds me to the audience. He is presenting me and people applaud adoringly. The Rabbi pulls out a long silk cloth from his robe. It is embroidered and breathtaking. Gently he starts wrapping me in it. I’m covered, and I can see nothing. I am cradled like and infant then delicately placed on the ground. I can hear the attendees counting down and a swoosh and then
“Mazel Tov!"
Part 2
Every thing is going according to plan. My ex is probably killing himself right now for letting me go. But that’s what he gets. After 7 years, a marriage is the only logical thing to happen. So for our 7th year anniversary what else would he give me but my diamond ring? Try a set of wine glasses. His defense was that I’d been telling him how much I wanted them, and they cost a fortune. This man kept me in a relationship for 7 years and he knew all along had no potential to grow into anything. So what better revenge than to get married to the richest man I could find. I bet he’s squirming like a squashed but right now, letting a catch like me get away, what an idiot. And the best part? The wine glass (singular since the other three were thrown at his head) he so “sweetly” gave to me will be stomped on at the wedding!“Time to get married” My father yells into my dressing room.I walk out and take my father arm and we head to the ceremony, the wedding procession goes out. Finally it’s my turn, the music peaks. Out I walk to my fiancé, this couldn’t be better. It’s all happening so perfectly. Ew why is he so slimy? Is he sweating? And twitching? That’s obnoxious. He slips the ring onto my hand, it’s hideous.“I do” he says.“I do” I say.I do? Why? Oh right the perfect pay back. Is he wearing brown shoes, with a black tuxedo? So he might have horrible taste but he’s also unbearably petulant, and repulsive. Wait that’s not right, he’s... is that fungus in his ear? I feel light headed. My new brother in-law stands up and heads clumsily to the cup. Wait no! Don’t smash it! He’s handing it to the Rabbi; I’m clinging to this glass like it’s my own life.
He puts it on the ground…I have made a horrible mistake.
Smash.
Mazal tov
There are booms of happiness all around me. I reflect and image of pure joy. A woman in white, a man in a suit, a grand five tear cake, and smiling faces. My intricate grooves and indentations scatter the illustration until it is almost undecipherable, but I know. But no matter how beautiful the scene around me is I am at the center of it. People gasp when they look at me, their faces exclaim praise of my unwavering exquisiteness. My elegant design is flawless. I sit upon a long uninterrupted lustrous neck that cranes to see what’s happening even in the far stretches of the chuppah. I flare outwards into a draping goblet that looks like a facsimile of the bride’s skirt. The wedding procession begins. A young girl walks down in a jittery skipping way. She flings out flower petals and then stumbles and the entire contents of her basket dump out into a pile in the middle of the pathway. Then just as the music is reaching its peak, an older man and the bride step onto the runway. She is donning an eloquent dress and a shimmering veil. She makes it to her fiancé who is sweating bullets. The music cuts off, children are shushed, camcorders are clicked on, and the Rabbi begins. People on both sides of the ceremony settle in for a long wait. A man stands up and fluffs his coat. He exudes fake importance; clearly he has taken the littlest job appointed to him to his head. He walks in my direction. His clammy hands grab me and fumble around. I’m captured! I shine with excitement what are they doing, will they honor me as they should. I am handed to the Rabbi who handles me with much more care. He holds me to the audience. He is presenting me and people applaud adoringly. The Rabbi pulls out a long silk cloth from his robe. It is embroidered and breathtaking. Gently he starts wrapping me in it. I’m covered, and I can see nothing. I am cradled like and infant then delicately placed on the ground. I can hear the attendees counting down and a swoosh and then
“Mazel Tov!"
Part 2
Every thing is going according to plan. My ex is probably killing himself right now for letting me go. But that’s what he gets. After 7 years, a marriage is the only logical thing to happen. So for our 7th year anniversary what else would he give me but my diamond ring? Try a set of wine glasses. His defense was that I’d been telling him how much I wanted them, and they cost a fortune. This man kept me in a relationship for 7 years and he knew all along had no potential to grow into anything. So what better revenge than to get married to the richest man I could find. I bet he’s squirming like a squashed but right now, letting a catch like me get away, what an idiot. And the best part? The wine glass (singular since the other three were thrown at his head) he so “sweetly” gave to me will be stomped on at the wedding!“Time to get married” My father yells into my dressing room.I walk out and take my father arm and we head to the ceremony, the wedding procession goes out. Finally it’s my turn, the music peaks. Out I walk to my fiancé, this couldn’t be better. It’s all happening so perfectly. Ew why is he so slimy? Is he sweating? And twitching? That’s obnoxious. He slips the ring onto my hand, it’s hideous.“I do” he says.“I do” I say.I do? Why? Oh right the perfect pay back. Is he wearing brown shoes, with a black tuxedo? So he might have horrible taste but he’s also unbearably petulant, and repulsive. Wait that’s not right, he’s... is that fungus in his ear? I feel light headed. My new brother in-law stands up and heads clumsily to the cup. Wait no! Don’t smash it! He’s handing it to the Rabbi; I’m clinging to this glass like it’s my own life.
He puts it on the ground…I have made a horrible mistake.
Smash.
Mazal tov
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