moment 1: I wake at 8:00. The sky outside my window is grey. The tree is startlingly green. The building across the way needs a new roof.

moment 2: I introduce a housemate to the Peter, Paul, and Mary, musicians of my childhood.

moment 3. “Be swift to love.”

moment 4: A housemate asks me what I’m thinking. My thoughts, seemingly irritated by the question, fly away.

moment 5: I decided between a green and tan charger with the same capabilities. Why is one more expensive than the other?

moment 6: The water flows over my fingers, baptizing a flap of dead skin, as I wash the dishes.

moment 7: Nicki Minaj.

moment 8. Why did I stop to look at the books? Furthermore, why did I not listen to myself when I told me, “Do not get any.”

moment 9: … I need to gather crayons.

Throughout the last month, I’ve been taking some time  (usually during lunch)to write down a sentence or two in a small journal I got from the Colorado Renaissance Festival. These ruminations may be revealing and some may be funny, but mostly they’re just… thoughts, bringing my inside to the outside.

1. Emmaeus

Seven pairs of feet –

Shoes, socks, bare –

On our walk to Emmaeus

Tears glittering on eyelashes –

Lowered in solidarity and prayer –

On our walk to Emmaeus

Dividing –

And coming together in aid and love –

On our walk to Emmaeus

And the Sycamore tree.

2. A squirrel stares at me while I eat my lunch. I am not about to give it my nuts.

3. “You should be careful who you give your money to. You never know what they’re going to use it for.”

But her story of abuse, eviction seems true. Her desperation I see in her panicking, but somehow dull eyes. I hear it in her quivering voice.

Before, she took off her hard hat and smiled – she looked young and pretty. After, I watch her fold her arms and direct traffic. Her life has made her age.

4. It’s difficult to see how we are perceived because we can only view ourselves from the inside. But, every once in awhile, we catch our reflections in other people.

7. It’s easy to get lost in my own troubles and thoughts. But spewing them onto paper, even with a broken pen, fixes me. And then continuing on, I focus on what is placed before me: others.

8. The church on the corner plays hymns while my housemate lifts up his water bottle and says “I have a giant capri-sun; worship me!”

9. It’s a beautiful day even when the sun’s not shining and when my spirit is in the ashtray. When people are having trouble, they see nothing good. Should we remind them that it’s a beautiful day?

10. The trash truck slowly lowers its arms and receives its partner, the dumpster, which emits a surprised squeal at being so rudely seized and raised into the air. It reluctantly obliges the truck, opens its lid and is shaken. It tolerates its lid painfully slapping close, if only because it knows its ordeal is almost over. It is set down with careful swiftness and the truck drives away without a glance or word. The dumpster feels empty.

12. Something to ponder: if there were less, but more efficient spiders, would humans be as inclined to squash them?

15.I fixed a technological problem at work without seeking my dad’s expertise. I feel proud of myself. At the same time, I miss riding on his shoulders and standing on the tops of his shoes.

16. What I have for breakfast: corn flakes, hot tea, and time spent with myself. What I fix for lunch: a bagel with crunchy peanut butter, an apple, a banana, and a book I need to finish by tonight.

This post is the product of an assignment for my Creative Nonfiction class in which we were told to take notes for twenty minutes on the sounds that we heard. Through doing this, I realized how important sound is to me, especially having had a hearing loss when I was younger. Not only that, sound is all around me, even though I don’t realize it most of the time. To do this assignment, I took a walk on a path that is conveniently right behind my apartment.

The intriguing thing about deliberately paying attention to sounds while on a walk is that all the other senses are more noticeable as well: the feel of the wind in your hair, the feel of your shoes on your feet, the feel of your heart pounding, the taste of the cool air, the sight of the sun behind a cloud, the way it makes goose bumps rise on your arms…
But as far as sound… The firsts are the train and the highway. Sometimes they seem indistinguishable from each other, but every once in a while, I hear a particularly loud truck or a squeak of a train car. A section of coal rambles by and I think that maybe the “chug-a chug-a chug-a choo choo!” that children cling onto is closer to its actual noise than I thought. Not because of the engine, but because of how the tracks interact with the cars.
The caboose disappears and the highway becomes prevalent. It doesn’t echo, but it somehow fills the world.
The noise becomes more personal: the slap, slap of my flip flops, my gentle breathing. And then it goes outward again. A car whooshes past, water sprays, a “hi” is panted, and a stream falls over occasional waterfalls.
A bridge: A bike passes over each board, which emits various clunks. I skip and jump on random parts of the bridge, but my feet can’t produce the same notes.
I approach the highway. Plastic on a truck flaps in the wind that its speed creates. The sound of the stream rises as the sound of the road rises and I notice the juxtaposition of birds twittering and the vehicles on the highway bridge.
Under the bridge, the highway is a bassoon. The frontage road that also crosses the walking path is full of circular noises. The cars are souls, or maybe winged insects, racing by.

I haven’t had a lot of time to read in the past few weeks, but I did manage to devour a magnificent book. The name of this wonder: Orfe by Cynthia Voigt. It is short (only 120 pages long) and it is spell-binding. I only set it down to make tea and managed to read it in an hour.

The whole time I was reading it, I was thinking that it would be a perfect book to teach in a classroom. It does have some language that I could see a high school English department would have trouble with, but I think it’s as good as some of the classics.

Orfe is told from the perspective of Enny, who reminds me of Nick Carraway from The Great Gatsby in a way because she mostly serves as an onlooker and narrator. The book follows all the encounters she has with her friend, Orfe. They meet in elementary school, get separated, and then meet again when Enny is in college and Orfe is trying to make it as a singer. That’s as much as I can write without revealing too much.

Tagline on my copy is, “There is music in her madness.” This sentence is what drew me to the book at first, but after I read it, I discovered that it isn’t the right tagline. I thought that Orfe would go mad or she would be mentally ill and she’s not (in my opinion) because of it. So if you just happen to pick up the same version as mine… ignore the sentence it is misleading.

I also do not like the sentence because it is  more dramatic than the language of the actual story is. The language is similar to some you would find in creative nonfiction, simple yet specific. Here is an example from the first page: “This is what I remember: I am sitting at a school desk. A wooden desk top with an open shelf of ridged blue pipe metal under it… It is recess and we’re inside, so it must be raining.” What I especially like is the fact that when Enny is a child, the events that she describes are more like the cloudy memories of childhood with not much dialogue and then when she is an adult, it is mostly dialogue.

Although the language may be simple, the subject matters aren’t. Some of issues that it touches on are addiction, bullying, and poverty. When I read it again, I’ll probably encounter more. That’s one of the beauties of re-reading.

The only thing that I wish was different about it was the ending, which is very abrupt. But even so… I would still say that if you’re tired about hearing about the mess that is Fifty Shades of Gray, it is definitely a book to read.

This post was inspired by Maira Kalman’s book My Favorite Things. Sadly, my list is not illustrated like hers is. Maybe I’ll add that to my list of projects which includes a novel and some short stories…

My Favorite Things
Used bookstores. The store is used quite often and the books are well –loved.
A soft blanket wrapped around my lower limbs.
The kettle on my electric stove. The anticipation of its enthusiastic, shriller-than-shrill whistle.
The poinsettia on my headboard. Its yellow pot has a tribute to a fallen friend.
Playing Bananagrams with myself. The words I acquire: extraneous, embroiled, femur, pesky, fibia, glaringly, testy, rodent, gem, coupon, credit, thunder, quay, hover.
The Colorado autumn, gold and quaking.
Planting my feet firmly on the sidewalk.
Mail in the mailbox. Excepting bills.
Eavesdropping. “I ain’t dropping no eaves, sir!” – Samwise Gamgee
The resonating sound of a cello, like molasses. There’s a glass of milk in case your throat goes dry.
The middle of a book. Not finished yet, but you’ve made progress.
The words “happy birthday” coming from a two year old mouth.
The first day of a new month. 29 days to look forward to.
Accomplishing something small. It feels big at the time.
Sleeping in. The day goes by so quickly.
Seeing the sunrise, even if it means getting up way too early.
Dreaming of the future with no sweating involved.
Quotes. “And remember the truth that once was spoken: to love another person is to see the face of God!” – Les Miserables
The anticipation of reading books that haven’t been read it.
Rereading.
Happiness.
Thinking of more favorite things.

What are your favorite things?