Noise from the typewriter.

I'm moving.

2010-03-14T17:34:00.001-04:00

On the Internet, at least.

theatticwindows.squarespace.com

Give it a visit.

#15. Lots of new work.

2009-07-31T03:42:00.006-04:00

Been a long time since I've updated this blog. Spring semester at Hope provided me with a very interesting poetry class, in which I wrote somewhere around 15 poems...all of which I'm fairly proud of. I'll post a few here now.

The first two, however, are works that I've written here at home this summer.

Enjoy =]

-amk.

he's a constellation.

the closest star to the god given soil
was birthed of sand, of blood and of sweat;
a golden eyed Arcturus is on the earth
and he's screaming, he's screaming,
he's looking towards the heavens.

to be touched by this glowing mass of
hydrogen and heart, who breathes and
who pulls the other stars into motion,
is to be touched by a holiness without
religion, purity without a blood-mark;

I've lost all of my senses, the time,
a constellation's lighting up my mind;
he left marks all down my shoulders
while I was staring at his sky. celestial
treasure, scream yourself into my heaven.

stellar-burned skin is
skin renewed.

an introduction to black-eyed insanity

he keeps his guns in twenty-one places;
enough to keep his mind alive, keep it
screaming revolutionary mad.

sitting still is rare in occurrence, artful in form.
if one is blessed with his quiet, one may
feel revolutionary themselves.

I can feel the veins in my head pulsing, moving,
and he's staring out his clean wide window
watching, breathing, waiting.

gun number nineteen is reserved for me, for
the one he shares the quiet with; I alone
understand his ammunition.

he holds the barrel while I pull the trigger
and the quiet we keep inside his room
shatters in our hands.

I wear
these scars
with pride.

The words of your mouth.

For you, I would create prisms – my inartistic hands
fumbling through colors and lines, I would imitate
your motions, and sigh over the pencil in your grasp.
I would snatch the stars away from their science if only
to scatter them back into your voice, and if only
you promised to continue speaking while you drew.

The words of your mouth – patient architecture in shadow –
allow me a quiet heart and an artful eye. For your words
I would create a classic turn of verse; a window to crawl
through, a muse to still look upon in uninterrupted awe.
Oh, even now, I hear your voice in this noise, the way in
which it once echoed off your bedroom walls, full and bright.

For you I would catch, I would pick up, the light sliding off of
your words, so that perhaps you could reuse it, place it inside
your drawings. I passively attempt to give you rainbows in
return; I carefully accept my words coming out too short. The
prisms of a writer are cold, and unpolished, and the words of
your mouth are too stellar to swallow anything sharper than pen.

Regarding the dye left on the carpet of your old apartment.

Like stains, how they stay, I am ever constant
in remembering this voice; textured lies, the smile
through which they came. I must have misunderstood,
running my fingers through black ink on brown;
yes, that’s it: misunderstood. How could I perceive
that you would leave a mark so deeply set, a mark
so far beneath that no matter how I attempt to scratch
it out, it will not leave me? Will these new
owners notice the place in the matting that mars
the rest of the floor? Will they hear these constant
thoughts, embedded in that black; will they see what’s
yours and yours alone - the smile refusing to be dimmed?

Where the Rest of Us Go to Feel Normal

“You give me a quiet mind, and I, I love you.”
- A Quiet Mind, Blue October

I hide myself inside Southeast Michigan,
inside the comfort of streets I know like veins
in the backs of my hands. Plymouth sways
quietly under the weight of autumn sun, and
I am without noise; I am full and self only
here, close to those I know and understand.

I rest where the rest of us go to feel normal.
I am an unashamed heart of Detroit, a brilliant
product of a hushed suburb, and my friends and
I will sing these love songs to our homes; we will
not, cannot heed to the teachings of this America,
claiming that our state is dying, is dying, is dead.

Here, we sing: here lies our history before us.
Families of an industry bruised but breathing,
loves built in the landscape of concrete and oak,
open spaces found inside the cities compound -
these threads are binding and strong, like
the trains that lullaby our evenings to sleep.

Times and places that shape our quiet minds
cannot be erased because of a suffering number,
a pained figure of currency. For the metro, we will
ever feel, and sing, and love, regardless of how
the Free Press worries and sighs; for the metro,
I will still proclaim my normalcy, my homeheart.

(c)AMK2009.

#14 Your Name Is Now A Joke (poetry)

2008-11-04T21:30:00.002-05:00

Your name is now a joke
on the corners of my mouth;
it became this way when you
brushed my hand, and not my cheek.
One night we went storm watching
off to the west, in your sedan,
and on the last night I saw you
I remembered your lightning.

(c)AMK2008

---------

This came out of nowhere. *shrug*
Yay for writing more often? Haha =]

Happy polling!

#13. An Introductory Poetry Class (poetry)

2008-10-25T22:15:00.004-04:00

This semester back at Hope, I had the pleasure of partaking in an introductory poetry course (alliteration?). It was only half of an entire semester, although I found the results to be pretty valuable.
In other news, I am staring down the month of November with the hopes of a completed novel - that's very difficult for me to even say. National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) begins on the first, and for the first time, I plan to participate. I may end up killing myself along the way.

My novel, already titled, will be called "Like Fireworks."

Enjoy just a couple poems produced by yours truly in recent weeks:

---------------------------------------------------------------

Disregarding The Weight of Harvard’s Name

This is you, listening to a professor speak.
To a lecture hall of 200, he talks of Prozac
and Zoloft, and other various anti-depressants
that you’re already aware of. You know your

boyfriend took them once, before you were
really a couple. Focusing on words such as
“addictive” and “destructive,” this is you,
carving nonsense symbols and signs into your

pristine rosewood desk. The full-rides and
the prides of Boston may look at you with
disdain, but pay them no mind. They only
see the skyline and the cobblestones of

the square; they see not the long lines of the
underground by the T, the heat coming off
of the Green Line running towards Faneuil.
Ruining your rosewood isn’t going to

hurt them any more than this lecture does
you, won’t scorn their family names. Maybe
you can leave your mark, disregarding the
weight of “Harvard,” and disregarding their looks.

After the hour has finished, you’ll go to stroll
across the “yard”, past the statue of Harvard himself
(or is it?), and go to the T station, the underground.
Until then, you’re one of them. An academic. And

yes, this is you, continuing to not take notes
and to think about why he really needed the Prozac.
Looking back, remember your college years as
you, sitting, carving, listening to a professor speak.

-------------------

She Muses

“Biting my trewand pen, beating myself for spite,
‘Fool,’ said my Muse to me, ‘look in thy heart and write.’”
- Sonnet 1 of Astrophil and Stella, Sir Philip Sidney

Nothing of a lover, but only of a friend,
your memory is serving as a great force;
my thoughts, your eyes, my hand, a gifted pen -
this writing, dear Muse, do you so endorse.
So in this clear room, and upon this small chair,
my body stays as though it’s nearly been shot,
and I digest how your words felt of care
whilst explaining I you liked, but “lovéd not.”
Ink stains paper, and paper stains these hands,
not unlike my tear-stained eyes as you left,
but fear not, my Muse, need not change your plans -
I’ll still write of the warm company we kept.
I’m trying my hardest to keep calm as I write,
but it’s hard, dear, as you’ve taken away my light.

(c)AMK2008

#12. Four Days (prose. I am really not a fan of this one.)

2008-04-17T11:04:00.005-04:00

I will come to you in the silence
I will lift you from all your fear
you will hear my voice, I claim you as my choice
be still and I know I am near ...
do not be afraid, I am with you
I have called you each by name
come and follow me, I will bring you home
I love you, and you are mine.
- "You Are Mine" (hymn), D. Haas

everyone has their obsession,
consuming thoughts, consuming time
they all have their prized possession
that defines the meaning of their lives
you are mine, you are mine.
- "You Are Mine", Mute Math

[ I deleted this terrible excuse for writing. Carry on. =] ]

#11. A Requiem (prose)

2008-02-21T21:57:00.002-05:00

Here's the prose I said back in ... what, November that I was working on, loosely based around Franz. Lied about the title; I now simply call it A Requiem. Thanks for reading =]

-----------------------------------------

Mental interruptions were normal – had become normal. It’s difficult to tell when they began or if they were ever to end. Things like:
“It’s the color of wine; it bleeds like wine.”
“Have my hands always been so kind, or have I made them that way?”
“Don’t answer the phone. It’s not who you think it is.”
“The air tastes like cigarettes.”
This evening, the interruption was “The air tastes like cigarettes.”
Shortly after eleven, he allowed for this interruption to materialize itself within his conscious state. More often than not, he chose to ignore the interruptions, especially those concerning quiet breaths on his shoulders and, more recently, bright eyes.
The door to his apartment slid shut after a single push, and the carpet followed suit by sighing under his feet. Tap, tap, click; the main door closed itself into a locked position. Keys in hand, briskly following the sidewalk, he inhaled.
“The air tastes like cigarettes.”
Perhaps the reason for the foul yet comforting taste was due to the neighbor lighting up a few cars away, or perhaps it was due to memory… he wasn’t sure. Whatever the cause, he was enjoying the arts of being analytical and perceptive. There wasn’t a lot of time left, he supposed, to be in such a state. He inhaled again, deeply.
Tap, tap, click, ding. He slid into the driver’s side of his sedan and closed the door in order to stop the persistent beeping indicating the open door. Each noise was in concert with his thoughts; it was a beautiful and complex symphony, complete with full, ripe cellos as well as the calm sound of the engine purring. A Michigan Winter’s Requiem, he decided. Incredibly appropriate.
“Cigarettes and exhaust, and snow, and – “
The first stop light halted his progression. Once back in reality, he focused out the window upon the not far off shopping center, and smiled. Even the fluorescent lights from the parking lot were dancing off the pavement, and the concert kept on. The season was coaxing him. “Come here, come outside, feel the cold air – “
“The cold water. And cigarettes and exhaust, and snow, and water…”
The thoughts began to drown out everything else around him, and at that point it seemed that the interruption may be a little too much. He accelerated, rounded a corner, and chose a parking spot roughly three rows away from the front façade of a Target.
Walk in, select kindly woven white dress shirt, make purchase, walk back to car. It was all very simple, and he was happy with his brevity. Once back in the driver’s seat, he carefully removed his full-length black wool pea coat (a difficult task), as well as the sweater it held beneath it. Also in this movement, he unbuttoned his newly acquired dress shirt, and placed it over his shoulders. He sized up his appearance in the rear-view mirror, decided it presentable, and started the engine again.
Flicking on his headlights and watching them project, he realized that the thoughts had quieted, if only momentarily. Silence was a welcomed change.
He drove down Sheldon out towards North Territorial, taking a left, and went west until he was somewhat tired of driving. He knew what he was looking for, but wasn’t exactly sure where he would come across it.
“CIGARETTES, STILL. And the exhaust, and the cold air, and the cold water… I feel it, cold water – “
The thoughts were back, and right on time. With not a soul around, only him and his car, he found it. A not-often travelled bridge over a very dark, very serene river whose name he was unaware of. It was beautiful, and it was perfect.
“Water. Cold. Freezing cold. Cigarettes.”
He inhaled, and let the air around him fill his lungs till he felt his immediate future in his veins.
“Heaven.”

------

At about this time, the poetry began. Franz had parked his sedan at the side of the bridge and killed the engine, as well as the headlights. He quietly emptied his jean pockets of his wallet, his change, his cell phone, and set them in the driver’s seat for someone to find later, perhaps as a treasure. He also left his jacket, expensive as it was, inside the car. He was not fond of the idea of the coat becoming a heavy burden.
His mother had called him only hours before to talk of the day’s happenings. He had experienced a successful day at work, and was happy with the way his recent project was coming along. She was glad to hear it. He told her he loved her and that he would see her soon, within the week. Later, she would come to find the letter, written on the back of one of his scripts, on his kitchen table, explaining why she was going to need to feed his cat.
Franz was admiring the images in his mind as the clock read 1:30am, admiring the memories he had kept blocked out for quite some time. He had not expected them to be so pleasant, so warm; he was happy they were so. With this sensation pulsing through his body, he took a few steps forward, purposely shifting his weight. He suddenly fell, and he fell divinely.
The cold winter water surrounded him with greed, and he no longer smelled cigarettes, nor exhaust. All that the world saw was a brilliant white spark of clothing, and shining gray eyes. Perhaps if one was looking closely enough, they would have seen the calm smile he held in his lips.

(c)AMK2008

#10. Franz, Without Light - A Requiem (Prose)

2007-11-29T01:03:00.000-05:00

Coming soon: A prose piece I'm working on inspired by a friend, written for the darker side in life.

Franz, Without Light
A Requiem

- Amanda

#9. Familiar Handwriting (prose)

2007-11-01T22:12:00.001-04:00

The days began to pass quicker than she initially anticipated. Colder air, comfortable classrooms, a workspace that was quite...usual, in every sense of the word. It seemed that in the years of secondary school, as soon as fall began to usher itself out, the days would become slow and lethargic. Looking back, she somewhat longed for those days - those days that she once wished to pass so quickly. Time was proving to be an absolute nuisance to her. Within these quickening days, the leaves found time to change from orange, to red, to ground. The sky found time to show off its true color, as it liked to think of it as...a beautiful, almost tangible blue, which radiated itself in tune Michigan's autumn. Even the oxygen found time to become a bit more noticeable; it became crisp, but not harsh, and it allowed for a sixth sense to be awakened: "Winter is coming."

Each morning, she greeted the crispness with either joy or disdain... It, supposedly, depended on the previous night's rest. Breathe in deeply, stretch, gently secure ear buds in place, lightly tap "Play", walk. This was the regiment, and it was calming. From work, to class, to the dormitory, to the cafeteria, perhaps - rarely - to downtown, and lastly, to the mailbox.

An interesting slate gray, the mailbox of her dormitory sits near the front entrance, faceted in an opposing wall. There is a grand total of perhaps sixty or seventy boxes, each identical in size and shape, the only differentiating factor being the numbers. The mailbox never receives sunlight, and it seems uncommon that it ever receives any cleanly attention. It only sees fluorescence, keys, human hands, and of course, letters. Wonderful parcels of different hues and varieties, littering the boxes with color and information. Both silent and patient, the great mailbox waits, holding its contents safe and sound - and not to mention, with a bit of pride.

Around the hour of four o'clock in the afternoon, she would return everyday. Most often, she passed the mailbox on the way to her stairwell. She slowly retrieved her keyring from her back pocket and began to fiddle for the smallest, dullest key. The mailbox would see this small act and internally smile, knowing her intentions, hearing the jingling. Upon finding that one key, she fit it into the lock of the box which bares her room number, and quickly turned it to the right. Bending just a small amount, she peered inside the cold box, and found only emptiness.

Quietly, she closed the box and locked it into the correct position. "Do not lose heart!" the mailbox cheered in the silent air, full of radiance from the pink and orange and purple letters which it contained. "Perhaps tomorrow!"

Day by day, as quick as they came, she would check the mailbox. Every so often, there would be a bank statement, a general college mailing. Nothing spectacular... But she wasn't expecting anything, either. However, she did not mind the checking routine. Any hope for something familiar in such a strange and foreign place was a comfort.

One afternoon, around the hour of four o'clock, she returned from classes. Passing the slate gray mailbox, she retrieved the keyring from her back pocket, found the small key, fit it into the lock, and turned her wrist. Inside the box was a small, white envelope, stamped and addressed. She was unable to see it, but the mailbox was smiling wide. When she read her name off of the thick paper, she saw familiar handwriting. The little parcel was warm to the touch.

She closed the box a little louder than normal, and locked it just a tad quicker. Briskly walking to the stairwell, she carefully held familiarity in her small hands, and ascended.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Inspired by five wonderful women and "Dokkoise House (With Face Covered)" by Anathallo.

(c)AMK2007

#8. Hope College (thoughts, non-prose)

2007-09-08T00:29:00.000-04:00

It's been quite some time since I have been able to sit down and actually concentrate on a new blog entry. I think it's now time I do so.

I am officially a college student.
I have moved in, I have begun my classes, and I have even made a few friends along the way.
So why am I here, in my home in Plymouth, feeling quite morose?
I'm not sure that I'm able to explain it... but I really wish that it would go away.

The house has a very...empty, quiet feel to it, which is incredibly abnormal. I'm using my Dad's computer, considering mine (a PC) is still back up at school, and it's something I'm not used to doing. I want to be in my room, lights low, and on my own computer listening to my own music - feeling at home. My parents are both asleep, and save for my typing, nothing is happening.
I'm feeling low, despondant, depressed, whatever adjective you would like to use. And I'm angry because of it.

I'm at home.
I should be happy.
I should not be letting any small thing bother me.

School is so... strange now. I feel like I know absolutely no one, even though I guess I could say I have a handful of steady friends. I already feel, however, that I'm somewhat of a recluse. I feel like everyone else around me is making friends much faster than I am, and that everyone is much more outgoing. Fine, I can deal with that. So what are the little things?
Maybe the fact that I know next to no one on my floor, and feel that none of the girls actually want to get to know Megan or I.
Maybe the fact that the girls in the dorm across the hall from ours completely ignore us in every way and seem to have a secret, hidden resentment towards us...when we have done nothing.
Maybe the fact that the whiteboard on our dorm room door has been vandalized twice in one week (vulgar words, a drawing of a penis, erasing of what we had, one of the magnets stolen), and we have no idea who's doing it... or why. This really, really depresses me for some reason...especially since no one else's door has been vandalized. We haven't made any enemies...
Maybe it's the fact that the general "Hope College friendliness" I've heard so much about has only proven itself to be HOPE COLLEGE JUDGEMENT and HOPE COLLEGE CLIQUES.

Western Michigan sickens me, in comparison to Eastern (Southeastern) Michigan. Live by Ann Arbor, and then try living by Grand Rapids. It's a horrible and disgusting culture shock, and it's gracefully hidden away by fake smiles and beach-wind hair - not to mention Christ.

I'm not saying that everyone I've met at Hope has been judgemental, etc. I really have met a few great people - Carrie, an Agnostic from Portland, OR; Jay, a liberal, recently gay non-believer from Ann Arbor; and my roommate Megan, an Atheist from Chicago. I've also met some very wonderful Christian people, such as Betsy. But do you see any connection here?
I'm supposed to be a Catholic, a Christian. I'm not identifying with these people. I'm not fitting in, and they're not wanting me to BE in.

I'm having issues being independent.
I'm having issues being away from home, and being at home, and everything in between.
I currently am not sure I even have a home that feels...right.

Could I please just have my English major and get on with my life?

#7. I apologize for the lack of prose, but this is summer. (thoughts, non-prose)

2007-08-05T23:33:00.001-04:00

Zack Pew, his home, his girlfriend, and his friends amuse me.
I'm glad I've officially met him, and I'm glad that we've become friends. I enjoy being around him.

This evening, as I drove home from his place after hanging out with him, Mac, and Franz (at different intervals), I fully felt...alive. That sort of only-in-films-welcome-adolescence sense of being alive.

The air was humid and I could feel it sticking to my skin, and I loved it - it smelled like rain. I listened to a Coldplay record really loud, and sped down Sheldon Road.

Everything was all right.

Currently, I'm having a somewhat in-depth conversation with Franz which is quite relaxing, and I'm listening to the rain cascade off my roof.
It's wonderful.

Every day should feel this way.

#6. sometimes I wish I were a different person (thoughts, non-prose)

2007-07-31T20:23:00.000-04:00

I am bothered.
This is a time where I refer to my mood as "emo".

I hardly even know what I want to write about... what the hell...
I am normally not this under composed, I promise.

Certain things make me wish that I were a different person, if only for a little while. That maybe I should try something else with my life. That maybe I'm completely and totally unsure of my identity, which scares me.
Things like meeting new people who I wish I were like.
Boys with swooping voices on their unsigned records, banging on their black pianos.
Seeing someone I consider "preppy" doing something risky before I think to do it.
My brother.
Strong Christians.
Content and blatant atheists.
Seeing old friends becoming and acting like something opposite what they once were.
Watching girls carelessly spend money on eye liner and hair extensions.

I have no idea what I'm talking about.

I do not care if I sound arrogant, or selfish, or naive.

I may normally tell myself that I am okay with everything that I've made myself into, but it's only true half the time.
I think I've got a lot more to do.

#5. years and years ago (poetry)

2007-07-25T01:01:00.001-04:00

When I was around 13 or 14, I was really into writing poetry - or trying to. I look at it as a time of expanding on what I wanted to write, and looking into how I could become a better artist, if an artist at all.
Here are just a few that I wrote around that time, for interest's sake.
Love,
Amanda.

Written for a friend to use in a reading, sometime in 2003:

and if a soul has no emotion,
and if the stars have shown us lies;
then I've wasted all my fairytales
and I've drowned inside your eyes.
too many words, flawlessly constructed,
in less of time to show you
how much I need you near to me,
and wish for the love I never knew.

Written on 8.17.04:

you're like the light's subtle glow on the silvery drops of rain
as the sun peers through the stormclouds, and the thunder still remains.
you're like the feeling of the rainfall in the cold, mid-day air,
ripping through the silence, and answering all my prayers.
you're like the smile of angel as water floods dry sidewalks;
your love comforts me like rain...if only the rain could talk.

Written on 12.14.04:

a description of how we could be
slipped into your idled thoughts.
it fell into your suffering whisper,
it chilled over your steel eyes.
this isn't complete;
this is completely flawed.
a description of how we could be...
we're lying to this darkness,
and we're lying to ourselves,
and we're lying to our promises
and I'm lying in your arms.

(c)AMK2007

#4. where will I be in one year? (thoughts, non-prose)

2007-07-21T23:46:00.000-04:00

There are thirty-four days until I begin to claim the campus of Hope College as my new home. Well...residence, anyway. A very short and seemingly staccato thirty-four days.

I realize that it is very normal for the high school graduate to contemplate life as they move into the new stage that is college education, however I feel that I am not contemplating enough. I've become numb to it all, trying to ignore it as if it will never actually occur. Denial. Mac will not be moving into Central a day before I move, I will not be taking challenging and somewhat intimidating courses, I will not be put into a sea of people that I have never met before, I will not be leaving my purple room with writing on the walls, I will not be leaving my best friend and cat Tinker alone to wonder where I went and to think I have forgotten about her.

No.
It is all simply a strange apparition.
Come fall, I will be standing in line outside of Ladywood High School with all of my familiar and comfortable friends as I await to be handed my neatly stacked pile of textbooks. It will smell like an eastern Michigan morning and there will be dew on the grass. Shortly after this, Mac and I will be going out to lunch at Big Boy or Panera, enjoying each other's calm company, and then proceeding to his home where we'll lay in bed all day with nothing to worry about except my Genetics homework.

Where will I be, a year from now?

Will I still be in a good, strong contact line with Hannah, Kelly, Claire, Jill, and Janine?
Will I have a completely new set of friends, forgetting the old?
Will I love school; will I loathe it?
Will I be enjoying my newfound freedom, or will I be scared stiff with the arrival of adulthood?
Will I get accurate and acceptable grades?
Will I continue a pursuit in vocal music?
Will Tinker hate me for not caring for her?

Will Mac and I still be as in love as we are now, two years into our commitment?
Will the pain be too unbearable?
Will I develop into someone accusing?
Will we be willing and able to continue on? Will we even be together?
What kind of person is he going to become?

Most importantly, who am I going to be?

I am excitement. I am worry. I am disdain. I am complete and utter fear.

Contemplation cannot do such a change justice...
I suppose experience is going to be the only thing to solve it.
Hopefully, I will be able to embrace the pain as much as I embrace the joy.

I wonder if western Michigan autumns are as beautiful as eastern...
I hear the winters are brutal.

#3. evening was the time for... (prompted, prose, based on experience)

2007-07-17T00:24:00.001-04:00

Evening was the time for storm watching.
Well, when it was storming, that is.

Dirt roads gave way to beautiful puddles, as well as a deafening sound. It blocked everyone and everything else out...for the most part. He could be himself, and he hardly knew who that was. Maybe the rain brought it out, maybe it was the people.

In the doorway of a old, small, and pathetic little home on the campgrounds, she and him would stand and watch the storm come in.
He'd tilt his head, look at her, look at the rain.

Who was he when he wasn't here? What defined him, anyway?
Drugs, for one. He tried to keep that very quiet, but it was obvious.
Smoking. It was on his breath, and she didn't mind. He tried to quit, but who the hell was he kidding...
Alcohol.
Disappearing for months on end.
A hint of bisexual curiosity.
Knowing that every girl near him would instantly fall in love with him, no matter how far away he seemed. He had that glistening effect.
To say the least, he was pretty fucked up, and he knew it.

In the evening in that house listening to the rain, however...none of it really mattered. He was himself without all the negative.

The wind would wrap itself around the two of them, standing there, and in it was the carried echoes of the campers playing in the lodge, hiding from the rain. It smelled sweet, like the wet grass and the firewood becoming soaked. He wasn't really used to such a sensation.
He lives in fucking Ypsilanti. There's no god damned firewood, no comfort, no girl to stand with him and watch the rain. Nothing but a miniature Detroit, a meager Ann Arbor.

She's still leaning in the doorway, mumbling something to his cousin who sits at the computer in the center of the room. He smiles, then lets it fade. The moment isn't going to last forever, and he knows this. He has to go back to his regular life soon enough.

If he could, however, he would have stayed.
He wouldn't have lied to her about how he was in love with her (even though at one point, he thought he was), about how he would keep calling. He wouldn't have even attempted to keep the friendship alive. Hell, maybe he wouldn't have gone back to Ypsi.
He would have stayed there, in that doorway, with his black hood up over his head, looking over at her and at the rain. He would have kept the evening imprinted and strong, underneath the thunder and happy cries of the kids.

After all, evening was indeed the time for storm watching.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Prompt "Evening was the time for..." taken from The Pocket Muse by Monica Wood.
Inspired by summers at camp, but built off into pure prose.

#2. walking with Fr. John, talking with Mrs. Trussler (thoughts, non-prose)

2007-07-13T17:11:00.000-04:00

I suppose some days are set out from the rest so that they can be beautiful.

Fr. John carries an air about him. A young, calm, strong, and not to mention incredibly good looking air. I feel like a quiet listener next to him, dying for his attention and guidance. And to think he actually enjoys my company...
Around him, I don't feel ashamed to be a Catholic. I don't have any regrets about my faith.

After 15 minutes of driving around downtown Plymouth looking for any parking space, angry at myself for being forgetful of Art in the Park happening this weekend, and officially being about 20 minutes late for our meeting, I found him waiting for me outside Starbucks. Shortly after him refusing for me to pay for my own coffee, we began a slow, leisurely walk, weaving in and out of the art-goers.

Allow me to paint a picture, so my change of tense isn't too confusing:

The weather is mid 80s, there's a wonderful and cooling breeze.
He's cut his hair too short and I tell him so, and he replies that it's of no consequence. I comment on my want of a passing white Corvette, and he quietly comments on how I shouldn't covet what doesn't belong to me.
In and out of booths, visiting a mutual friend who is vending his art, we talk about my family, my mother, my upcoming college career....his new home [back] in Plymouth, his newfound parish, his far-too-large home with no wall space for art. I can smell the carmalized almonds and funnel cakes, seeping through paintings and garden sculptures.

(he points) "Want some cotton candy? I'll surely buy you some."
"Are you sure that isn't just a ploy? Secretly, you want the cotton candy, but you're making it out so that I want it and you can simply have it."
A warm, familiar grin, and a hidden laugh.
"No, I think I'll pass on the cotton candy."

Many people know him, many people adore him, many people want to be near him.
He stops something like three times to speak with old friends and new acquaintances. Each and everyone of them is absolutely ecstatic to see him walking leisurely around my beautiful hometown; to see him where he belongs. And I, the young girl (suspiciously so, perhaps) accompanying him on this walk - I'm the lucky one.

He walks me to my car, politely declining my offer to drive him back to the rectory - quite literally a 1 minute drive. "God wishes for me to walk; do you not see this weather?" A hug, a promise to get together soon, and desire to meet my Agnostic boyfriend.
"I think I'll bring Mac to mass this Sunday."
"Wonderful."
"Well it's, interesting. (I take a slightly awkward and unsure pause) To.. say the least.. he's Agnostic."
"So? I would love to meet him. Bring him by."

My mother would never had said such a thing.

After coming home, I find a vase of lovely flowers along with a card holding twenty unnecessary and exceptionally generous dollars from my next door neighbors, honoring my graduation. Shortly following this, I walk over to their home to personally thank them.

I don't see Julie Trussler often, and I regret this. She's a gorgeous woman and mother, young and vibrant. Her children are also incredibly beautiful. The boy, Jacob kept giving me hugs and kisses, while the girl, Jillian, seemed enthralled by the fact that I was in their home - they were literally excited to see me, these children I never speak to.
Jillian wishes to draw me a picture and bring it to me. I told her she could come over and play any time she wished, and I've never seen a smile so big...

Julie and I talked in her foyer, surrounded by toys, for a good ten minutes, concerning the pros and cons of college. She gave me wonderful advice and seemed genuinely...excited for me. I haven't gotten that a lot. The most genuine part of this encounter, however, was when Mike came home from work.

Ties around his neck, obviously worn, he walked in the foyer through the garage entryway. Jacob and Jillian were already joyfully exclaiming his return. He smiled and greeted me, but then turned his attention to his children. Scooping each of them up in opposite arms, he carried them into the kitchen while they asked him many questions about his day.

I have never seen such love. Simple, beautiful, and profound, complete with Tonka trucks.

I wish for three things in my life, I decided, as I walked across their plush lawn back to my own.
Number one: A loft apartment with high ceilings and wide windows.
Number two: My published work, and people reading it.
Number three: A love like that.

Like I said, I guess some days are just set out to be beautiful.

#1. resentful women (thoughts, non-prose)

2007-07-10T22:30:00.001-04:00

Sitting at my desk in the cool air, leaning the phone against my shoulder, I can hear the disdain and defense in the women's voices as I politely ask to speak to their husbands. The disgust.

I'm only confirming their appointments, nothing more. I tell them so.

"Hello?"
"Hello, is [Steven] there at the moment?"
(a pause, an indignant and audible shuffle)
"Well, I'm his wife. Can I help you?"
"Oh I'm sorry, this is Amanda calling from Salon Anew...I'm calling just to confirm Steven's appointment tomorrow evening at 6:00 with Suzann. Could you please remind him?"
(another pause, yet no shuffle)
"Oh, um, sure. Thanks, I'll let him know."
"Thank you. Bye bye."

My voice is young, I suppose. Clear, sharp, understandable. I normally have a lower speaking voice, but ever since I was small I've used a different tone while in certain situations - talking on the phone to unknown people, giving speeches, talking to adults I've never met in person. My voice becomes higher, much sweeter...no low slurs or dipped pitches.

I keep my low tones to myself, to the people I love.

However, I don't think my voice unpresentable.
A young voice asks to speak with your husband on the telephone. Where does your immediate defense stem from, wife? Why are you so afraid of me?
How sad. Does he give you reason to believe your nextdoor neighbor is more than just a neighbor? Does he stay late at work some nights, only to return near two in the morning?

Are you less of a woman because of my calm, professional voice?
Am I some uncertain source of envy?

Shortly after, I'll set the phone back in its holster and move on to the next name on the book. Hopefully I'll be calling Carol Kayfes or some other senile woman who'll be coming in tomorrow for her roller set.
Certainly she doesn't regret my voice.

(c)AMK2007

#0. An introduction.

2007-07-09T02:34:00.000-04:00

Hi all. =]

This is officially, henceforth, going to be known as my writing journal. I've got one for my own personal use, but I wanted to create one just for my work to be published. Hopefully this will get me out of the rut that I'm in, the non-writing rut...

Happy reading.

Love,
Amanda