Wednesday, December 7, 2016

You Are Here

You are here.
But you don’t want to be here. 
Your mind is elsewhere.
The future, the hopes, the fantasies couple with dread that you are here and you don’t want to be here. You want to be in the distant time where your brain guarantees that it will be better. You are here but you can be there. It’s an obsession and you feel like you’ll never get there. You stop, drown in your sorrows and feel no sense of purpose. You push away your reality searching and seeking anything. You are here and everything you want is elsewhere. You got here by giving up everything, making the necessary sacrifices until you were left dry and thirsting for anything to give you a sense of bliss.
She shut the tablet and grabbed her duffel bag, several smaller bags and her pillow. You are here, she thought to herself. Hoping she had everything she needed, she walked out the door.
~
https://www.pinterest.com/pin/379357968596679214/
The radio rattled on as the pickup meandered down a dusty highway. She kept throwing sideways glances at him; he caught her from the corner of his eye. She smacked the button on the dashboard silencing the loud commercial.
“Let’s play a game,” she said clutching the notebook she’d been scribbling in.
“Okay,” he said. “What game?”
She tells him once on a road trip to a rodeo in South Dakota—or was it North Dakota?—her friend played a game where every time they passed a specific sign, they had to compliment each other. On this route, there were signs every few miles advertising an attraction.
“Since there aren’t really signs like that,” she said looking around the barren, unmarked landscape. “we’ll just take turns saying nice things.”
He smiled shaking his head ever so slightly. She wrote at the top of a page in her notebook, “10 Things I Like About You.” Turning a page, she wrote, “10 Things You Like About Me.” She put the date in the top right corner like the scrupulous writer she was. She looked up at him.
“You first,” he said.
“I thought of the game.”
Pause.
“I like your laugh,” she said. It was something she knew he was self-conscious of. He used to be embarrassed when she made him laugh; he’d cover it up and never let a full hearty laugh out.
“I like your smile,” he said. She tried not to smile.
Each bump and jostle of the road drown in the background and the places they cruised by might as well not have existed.
“I like your butt in those jeans,” she said.
“Hmm,” he murmured. “I like the way you accept me the way I am.”
The landscape started to change. There were more hills and trees. The grass held shades of autumn.
“How much longer?” she asked.
“Oh, not too long.”
“Okay, let’s do things we hate about each other.”
Again, she titled two different pages.
“I hate how you won’t listen to my music,” he said.
“I try!” she retorted.
“You’re getting better,” he acknowledged.
She looks out the window. A large property with a beautiful home, a barn and lots of pasture. They make eye contact, the knowing look that says someday.
“It’s only ‘cause,” she says returning to the conversation, “My brother used to listen to that kind of music and he would get so angry and frustrated. I just associate it with that.”
He nodded.
“Your turn.”
Without hesitation, she said, “I hate your driving.”
“I hate your side seat driving,” he responded.
She wrote “side seat” in quotations refraining from saying she hates that he said it that way.
They pull up to a house with a car port. Leaves from a tall expansive tree crunch beneath our feet.
“This is my future daughter-in-law,” her future father-in-law said wrapping an arm around her.
“Hi,” she says to the first of many people she’ll meet for the first time.
~
A long-distance relationship is like balancing two lives in two different places.
Places.
In "Harry Potter," Hermione could be in two places at once. Sometimes I want to be in two places. Sometimes I really am. I am in Nebraska going to school. Sometimes I want to be home in Colorado and sometimes I want to be in Oklahoma with my cat and fiancé. Sometimes I’m talking to my fiancé so much when we aren’t in the same geographical location that I feel although I am physically in Hastings, I am mentally somewhere else. It’s like leading two different lives, which is silly because I hardly handle the life I was given.
Home. It’s one of my favorite places. The first place I left; the first place I returned. The scenery was something I took for granted. I didn’t know anything but the mountains, vast forests, blue skies. It took leaving for me to appreciate what I woke up to each day. 
She looked up from her tablet, her hands poised above the keyboard. She leaned back in the chair with a sigh. Her coffee was cold; her brain running on fumes.
~
“We’re praying,” someone said.
Everyone stood in a large circle. She grabbed his hand and he grabbed his grandpa’s next to him. His grandpa saw her and quickly switched spots with him.
“I want to hold a pretty girl’s hand,” he said in a raspy voice. She smiled and obliged. They bowed their heads as the prayer began.
Just like that there was movement to the kitchen, a pot luck style of filling your flimsy paper plate with as much as you can.
After eating they went back outside. The sun was shining and it was warm out. He stood by her as she sat on the tailgate of her pickup. They had a cooler of beer. The contents of it they had to drink inconspicuously.
“We’re starting games! Get in here,” a woman said peeking out the door.
“Noooo,” she groaned. She meant to keep that internal, but her dread pushed outward. “Do I have to? Can we just hide?”
He only nodded in sly confirmation. He poured a beer and they walked towards the park. The family gathering was taking place at a church so there was plenty of room to spread out. It was only a matter of minutes before his mother called out to them, commanding them inside. Everyone was on teams. The noise ricocheted off the walls, bouncing off her ears and making her head pound with it.
“You can take my place,” a brother’s wife said. “Or you can hold the baby.”
“I’ll hold the baby,” she said. The baby was reaching for her watch as it caught the light. As soon as he was in her arms, he nuzzled his head against her neck and dozed off. She tried hiding but the mother found her and insisted it was her turn to play; she needed to feed the baby. Her stomach dropped when she saw plates of whip cream on the tables.
“Come on!” everyone seemed to yell.
Hesitantly, she stood next to him.
“You can’t use your hands. There’s a letter on each plate. You have to find all five to spell a word,” a voice said.
She pulled her hair back eyeing the plate. Then stuck her face in it. But she could not find a letter. The rest of the team had already found theirs. She stopped, looked around, and paused before continuing. Another team already won. Her future mother-in-law patted her on the back.
“You’re a trooper,” she said.
~
“Now what are we doing?” she asked for what felt like the hundredth time.
“Going to Papa and Nana’s,” he said. “My dad’s parents.”
“How long of a drive?”
“Two hours.”
She plugged her phone in and played the end of the podcast they hadn’t finished earlier. She was fidgeting and after stopping at Starbucks, the caffeine only made it worse.
“Let’s ask each other questions,” she said. The highway was extremely dark now.
“What kind of questions?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I saw some good ones on Facebook.”
The screen lit up her face as she scrolled.
“Okay,” she said. “It says, ‘Without prompting, ask your significant other these questions and write exactly what they say.’ Okay. What’s my favorite food?”
He thought about it for a while. “I’m not sure actually. Steak?”
“I’m not sure either. . . depends on my mood. Yours is definitely steak,” she said. “What makes you proud of me?”
“Your writing. You write so well, and you’re just so smart.”
He turned the cruise off as his brother slowed down in front of him.
“I wish he would just pick a speed,” he muttered. “What are you proud of me for?”
She glanced at him. “How adaptable you are, especially at your job. They can throw anything at you and you can handle it.”
“Mmpf,” he grunted.
They grew tired although it was only eight o’ clock. He followed the pickup in front of them onto the exit ramp. But his brother continued back on the highway.
“What is he doing?” he said aloud as he turned right.
“Is this the right way?”
“Yes,” he said. A little later he said, “I guess it’s just a little longer.”
He turned off on a side road and drove into some trees. He pulled into a grassy area by some campers and parked. An older gentleman walked towards them with a flashlight. He went to hug him but when his grandpa saw her, he pushed him aside.
“I’d rather hug this pretty little thing,” he said. “How are ya?”
“Good,” she smiled.
They followed him toward the house. There was a garage full of junk. A fridge stood open; it’s doors filled with non-perishable items.
The home was warm, filled with family and shelves of knickknacks, a large kitchen, cook books filling the cupboards. A crock pot of white chili. The men say in the living room. A father and a son reminiscing of old hunting stories.
~
The morning was brisk. Frost covered the grass and a light fog floated around the trees. It was completely silent. Inside the house cinnamon rolls were baking in the oven, coffee brewing in the pot. Everyone was slowly waking up, even the kids.
“I’m going to Atwoods today to get some bullets,” he was telling his father.
“Yeah, I’ll go with,” his father had said.
They went, the two of them, a brother, father, and grandpa to town. Grandpa drove with sharp turns, unexpected braking and random swerving. Expecting it to be busy on this Black Friday, they were pleasantly surprised. The spent almost an hour perusing the sales at the country store. Camouflage, camping gear, home decorations, clothing.
“If we stand here long enough, I’m going to buy a pair of boots,” the brother said to her.
“I know right. Fifty bucks off?” she said.
Eventually all of them found their way to the front, and they made their way back to the house. Someone else drove on the way back, sparing all of the necks whip lash.
At the house, the rest of the family started showing up. More introductions for her.
“This is my betrothed,” he said.
“Hi,” she said shaking their hands.
“I didn’t know you were engaged,” one woman said.
“It’s still early,” she said. “We’ll talk after Thanksgiving.”
The woman laughed. “I think you’ve found your match,” she said smiling up at him.
I wasn’t joking, she thought to herself.
They stood in another circle of prayer.
“Does anyone want to say grace?” Nana asked.
“My dad does,” a boy chimed in.
Everyone laughed and his father stared down his boy from the other side of the circle. She stood in his arms as the prayer ended and everyone ushered into the kitchen. This was her place.
You are here.

Wednesday, November 30, 2016

You Can Bump 'Em

Dirt flew across the paneled fence, splattering the faces of onlookers. Cowboy hats ducked slightly and the announcer cackled into the microphone, “That was quite the show, my friends.” Minutes later the bull trotted proudly out of the arena, after much effort of the pick-up men.
She sat on her horse in the corner outside of the arena: out of sight, out of mind. Her arms were crossed, hiding her anxiety. Barrel racing was the next event. She knew once she picked up the reins her mare would start up, like an engine of a motorcycle purring in anticipation, and she would have to contain her. The excitement, the nervousness—it never died away. Three cans were set up. The cowboys scooted them and twisted them to the perfection of a barrel racer’s pleasure. She was last hole, the bottom of the rake. Saving the best for last, she told herself. She let out a long breath. Her mare matched her with a loud blow. She patted her neck careful not to disturb the reins. That was how sensitive her mare was, how in-tune of an ensemble. Stepping off, she tightened the cinches, another indication that the race was nearing.
Anticipation.
The announcer spoke her name in a long drawling voice; she was next.
She picked up the reins, the mare started prancing and breathing quickly, pulling her head against the reins, explosive but gentle. She pointed her towards the alley, the long path to a short pattern. Instantly, the mare picked her head up, pushing against the reins, begging to be let loose. Closer they inched to the gate as the previous horse left the arena. The anticipation building as they saw the first barrel. She kept her eye on it before giving the mare the cue that it was all hers; it was the mare’s turn to take control.
Granby, CO Summer 2012
Trust.
A major part of barrel racing. Trust that as they ran full speed towards the barrel, the mare would, in her right lead, hunker down grazing my toe in a perfect semi-circle around the girth of the barrel. Trust that we would find each barrel and getting as close as possible—“You can bump ‘em, you can kick ‘em, just don’t knock em over!” the announcer cackles—we would make the pattern home, clocking our fast time.

Tuesday, November 1, 2016

English Is Weird!

Even through thorough thought the English language can be tough.

https://www.behance.net/gallery/6349473/OUT-OF-MY-MIND-20

If you are a native English speaker, you know your language is pretty weird. I remember realizing this when I learned how to spell neighbor. Foreigners learning the language know only to well how weird it is. Oddities in spelling and pronunciation happen a lot in the English language. Like tough and though sounding different. Or how you can wind up a ball and throw it into the wind. And I can object to that object.
Did you know we order our adjectives in a specific way? And we don’t even have to think about it! How does this sound: Tiny delicious round four cookies sat on the table. Sounds terrible, doesn’t it? I’ll try again: Four delicious tiny round cookies sat on the table. Ah! So much better. We always order our adjectives by quantity, value/opinion, size, temperature, age, shape, color, origin, and material.
In 1934, a Webster dictionary was published with a made up word, "dord." It wasn't until 1939 that somebody caught it! Words with no meaning show up in the dictionary all the time due to publishing errors. They're known as "ghost words."
Majorly weird things happen with spelling so we're the only ones that have Spelling Bee's. As a Spelling Bee champ, I found it strange that other countries don't participate in such things. Why? Well, their words don't have such random and difficult spellings, in other words, the spelling actually coordinates with the pronunciation of the word. What a thought!

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

I have quite the reading list to get through..

http://www.comingsoon.net/tv/trailers/761619-hbo-has-
unleashed-the-new-westworld-trailer#/slide/1
I wrote an article this week about Westworld, a new HBO original series. I was hooked by the first two episodes and started looking into the premise of the show. It is a remake of a 1973 film directed by Michael Crichton (who also wrote the book). Crichton is the author and director of several popular and well-known pieces, mostly Science Fiction. He has a knack for the cautionary tales of our machines enslaving us. He is the author of Jurassic Park and The Lost World. In 1994 he had a film, a TV show, and a book topping the charts (Jurassic Park, ER, and Disclosure.) He wrote Eaters of the Dead, later made into the film The 13th Warrior. He went to Harvard to study English and found that one of his professors just didn't get his writing style. Thinking the professor was either messing with him or wasn't reading what he turned in, Crichton tested it. He submitted an essay by George Orwell under his name and received a B- on it. 
https://books.google.com/books/about/
Disclosure.html?id=PS4W1XV
mPugC&source=kp_cover
Shortly after, he changed his degree and continued on to medical school. He wrote a book about his travels, titled Travels and in my opinion he is a certifiable genius. After his death in 2009, Pirate Latitudes was published. Another manuscript found on his computer will be published in May 2017 called Dragon Teeth. His website is pretty interesting. He also wrote the screenplay for one of my favorites, Twister. Like, seriously, this guy is
Michael Crichton, USA Weekend magazine, 1994.
my hero. He's a role model for writers and filmmakers. 

So where do I begin reading? Do I begin with controversial Disclosure about sexual harassment? Or Timeline that travels back in time to the Middle Ages in France? Perhaps Rising Sun, an international best-selling crime thriller? Or do I crack open Jurassic Park and enter into a world of dinosaurs? My bookworm heart is warm and fuzzy thinking about it. 

The link to my article detailing more about the TV show Westworld is here!



Wednesday, October 5, 2016

Snapshots of Inspirations

When I was little my mom told me there were forest fairies in our backyard. I got a small plastic aquarium that used to have a hermit crab in it and made a home for them. I put honey water in a little dish every day and waited to catch one. I became obsessed, and my imagination grew so vivid that I could swear to this day I saw one. My mom planted a butterfly bush outside my bedroom window and she said that like the butterflies, the fairies were attracted to the bush as well. My dad placed a flat boulder next to it for me to sit on. I’d curl up like a cat in the sun and lie there.
I grew up on Green Acres Lane and every time I talk about it the theme song to the late 1960’s TV Land show “Green Acres” plays on a loop in my head.  “Greeeen Acres is the place to be! Faaaarm livin’ is the life for me!” It’s okay if you don’t know that reference; if you can’t imagine it, place a city slicker on a tractor singing like a hillbilly, voice cracking and everything. I only know because of a house warming gift. A family friend bought us a candy dispensing house that sang the song. The quirky background music played the tune to my life. We rarely watched TV, but when we indulged ourselves during breakfast on Saturday mornings, we always flipped to TV Land. “Bonanza” and “Little House on the Prairie” and “I Love Lucy” played. I’m not sure if those were all actually on the same channel, Hallmark was really the only other channel Mom let us watch. Grandpa always watched “Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman” and “Walker, Texas Ranger.” I’m not sure where the trend of “Name, comma occupation” for TV show titles disappeared to.
With many horses, 20 acres of land, an arena and a barn, Green Acres Lane really was the place to be. My family went to rodeos every weekend and Cowboy Church on Sundays. Sometimes we left the Christmas lights up all year; we only locked the doors when we heard about a break-in near our area. My best friend and I would walk along the fence by Burgess Road waving and making honking motions towards passing cars, counting how many we got in return. We never wore shoes and were always outside. I remember many times when my dad would have a fit of rage, I’d hide in the forest plotting my escape. I’d run away someday. I’d ride away on my favorite horse, Jose. I never did, of course. I was bright eyed with big ideas that I never acted on. I’d plan them out and write stories about girls much braver than I running away from home and making it on their own, just their horse and themselves. I started writing bigger stories about girls going to bigger cities, for college, for jobs, for a bigger, better life. I started plotting my own journey, saving money and googling places new to me.
Infatuations.
I always liked this word. The sound of it. The meaning. What does it mean to be infatuated with something or someone? To be infatuated. I liked the word so much better before I looked up the definition. I always imagined infatuation as a long-term thing, like a love for a person. But nothing is really long term.
My planning jarred to a halt when my grandpa died my junior year of high school. I vowed not to leave and to spend more time with my family. The heart ache convinced me I could never spend enough time with my relatives. The revelation of death persuaded me to believe that any of us could die at any moment, and it would have been worse if I was unable to be there in their last moments. My older brother was away at school, and he didn’t have a chance to fully accept it and say goodbye. But senior year I was ready to leave; I wouldn’t go far but I needed breathing room. I drove the six hours to Hastings, Nebraska.
~
We built a tree house, us kids and dad. Well, mostly dad. All three of us would sit up there working on art projects. We’d have our French toast with syrup and peanut butter for breakfast out there. We’d invite friends over and pretend it was our own humble abode. My older brother had a friend over once and we were playing with the hose under the tree house making small lakes and rivers. Trying to contain the water in places as it ran down hill.
            “Dam it!” his friend kept saying. I giggle uncontrollably as I usually did around my brother’s friends.
            Taylor was mad and telling him to stop saying that in front of me. I encouraged him as though I thought it charming and humorous.
            We hung our artwork on the walls of the tree house and read books on the floor. I wrote in my journals, my mind running wild. There were many insects and spiders. But there were always spiders where I was. Slowly, the tree house was abandoned. I don’t know what point we thought we outgrew it, because to this day I would still enjoy sitting in that tree house. But now it has what I consider a spider infestation, and the last time I was in there I saw not one but two black widow spiders.
            For whatever reason, my room always had the most spiders. Perhaps I noticed them more than the rest of my family, like the large black pregnant spider in my bed. But I learned how to squish my own spiders because by the time I’d run to the kitchen to find my dad and run back in hysteria to show the proof, the ugly creature would be gone. And I would sleep somewhere else for a few nights, unsettled by the thought of a spider sleeping in my bed. I received no pity as well in those psychologically scarring moments of my childhood and my dad showed no hustle following me to the horror scene.
Living in Oklahoma for the summer, where the bugs are much greater in number and size, I religiously sprayed the house with bug repellent but to no avail. Spiders inhabited every space they could, spiders that looked exotic and poisonous. One day while I was cooking in the kitchen and Toby was messing with the TV, I heard a small squeak and I looked up. Toby stood with broom in hand jabbing at something on the floor.
            “What?” I asked.
            “Spider,” he said, eyes wide. I realized now the squeak came from him.
            I moved closer to see a monster of a spider, the size of the palm of my hand. I tried taking a photo of it but couldn’t get close enough. Wouldn’t get close enough.
            The first night I slept in our house in Hastings senior year, a bat flew out in the middle of the night swooping down and flying in chaotic circles. Nobody believed me, and I wished it was a dream. The next evening it came upstairs. I’ve never seen three girls move quicker. The shrill shrieking was terrible. If my fiancé wasn’t there we probably would have lit a match, slammed the door, and never looked back. Eventually he shooed the damn thing out, and we crossed our fingers there wouldn’t be any more. I love animals. I’ve always surrounded myself with them, cats, horses, dogs, hermit crabs. Now I have no animals near me. No horse to feed every morning and evening; no cat to cuddle with at night. It’s rather lonely. Animals were my muse. I wrote about horses from the perspective of the horse. I envied their freedom I imagined in the open range. But it seems now I’m mostly surrounded by the ugliest of creatures.
~
            People called me a giggle box because instead of talking I would laugh. I was a silent child but a giggling one. Teachers spent their time trying to help me to find “my voice.” I used my voice on paper. I’d write stories. My little brother was a talker and he’d make up stories for days. He would tell jokes he made up too that weren’t funny and didn’t make sense, but the whole family would bust out in laughter. I was the opposite. I wrote stories that I didn’t want anyone to read. I wrote in my diary. I had so many journals; I’d beg Mom to buy a new one before I’d finished the first. I was the child that received extra homework, not as punishment, but because I was too good at it. My third grade teacher emailed my dad extra difficult spelling word for me to learn. I won every spelling bee from first grade to seventh grade, except for one. I don’t remember what year it was, but I was simply tired of people remarking about how likely it was I’d win again. I didn’t know it was such a big deal to some; I was simply spelling words correctly when they called the next person in line. That year I lost on purpose. A boy who was not very good at spelling was the last person standing with me, so I purposely spelled my word wrong. But then he spelled that word wrong, too, and it was my turn again, and I spelled that word wrong too wanting to hit him in the back of the head if he messed up again. But I think he won. I’m not sure; I’d have to go through my spelling bee plaques.
~
            The first time I had a gulp of liquor, I was at home and this was during my new obsession of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. I’m not sure if anyone actually likes the flavor or if it was the joy of self-inflicted pain, in any case, my mouth was on fire. My dad and brothers have a habit of filling up large glasses of ice water and leaving them on the counter. I rarely filled up my own glass because I was always taking theirs. So, my mouth on fire I marched to the counter and grabbed the large glass of water and threw it back. The burning sensation in my throat out matched the one in my mouth. I was sputtering for air, surely the vein on my forehead was bulging and ran to the bathroom. To this day, I still do not understand why anyone would drink (what I now believe to be) straight vodka. Positively not after a mouth full of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.  
            There’s really no point in these stories, except the fact that they still have lingering influence in my life. These are stories that I recall; they shaped my writing. Many stories I conjured in my mind came to life while sitting by that butterfly bush. The first time I saw a forest fairy is engrained in my mind, and that was the beginning of an imagination that still tells stories today. I still have “Green Acres” theme song stuck in my head since writing this, I still have a lot of spiders in my room, and I’m really good at spelling and laughing at myself. These are the moments of inspiration for my love of words and writing.


Tuesday, September 20, 2016

Why Boredom Is Actually Great For The Creative Mind

Today we strive to avoid boredom; it's practically a taboo in our society.

We have all heard that being bored is something bad. Something that you should never be. But it's actually not so bad!
I'm a person that quickly got sucked into the social media and Netflix black hole. Now I constantly have my favorite TV show playing in the background of everything I'm doing and Facebook is always open, interrupting my life with notification pings. As a result, I am bombarded with constant information. And useless information at that. Moments of silence in my life are rare. Moments of inactivity are far in between. My life is punctuated by the busyness of my day, the compulsive social media skimming and Netflix binge watching, and naps. I fall asleep watching Netflix as well.
I remember a time when I would fall asleep reading; I'd wake up my face lined with the imprint of the book's pages. Throughout my day, I'd be writing, doodling, and so on. I'd keep a journal and set daily goals to improve myself. Peace and quiet was welcomed, and doing absolutely nothing was welcomed with open arms.
Today, being bored is one of the worst things we can be.
Today, we can no longer stand in line without scrolling through our phones, texting our friends.
Today, sitting absolutely still for a period of time is agonizing.
Mental Floss
Andreas Elpidorou, a researcher of the University of Louisville, writes in an article, "The Bright Side to Boredom," that "boredom helps to restore the perception that one's activities are meaningful or significant." Boredom actually functions as a "regulatory state that keeps one in line with one's projects. In the absence of boredom, one would remain trapped in unfulfilling situations, and miss out on many emotionally, cognitively, and socially rewarding experiences. Boredom is both a warning that we are not doing what we want to be doing and a ‘push’ that motivates us to switch goals and projects." Watching Netflix fends off boredom, but also the fulfilling experiences that boredom leads to.

"Boredom is both a warning that we

are not doing what we want

to be doing and a ‘push’ that motivates

us to switch goals and projects."


Boredom pushes us to find what we are lacking in the present situation. We crave something more meaningful and rewarding. So the next time you run into creative block, whether in writing, painting, etc. allow your brain the chance to be bored. Pause the Netflix series, silence all notifications and find that creativity. Being bored shouldn't have the negative connotation that today's society places on it. Let your mind wander for a minute without bombarding it with useless information and interruptions. Let boredom motivate you.

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

Social Media Has Changed The English Language

Ever hear a member of the older generation, perhaps an English teacher, say texting, tweeting, and facebooking are ruining our language? There is actually no proof that shortened text language affects our grammar. Facebook introduced us to new words with new meanings like 'friend,' 'wall,' and 'like.' Read more here.