essays

One of the essays that definitely struck a cord with me was Virginia Wolfe's, "Death of a Moth". I especially enjoyed the juxatoposition of life and death throughout the piece. The birds, the moth, the sun, the men in the fields are all described in ways that are vivid and bring them to life as characters although they are never truly described. The way the narrator's life is put temporarily on hold while she watches the moth contrasts beautifully with the way the moth lives so fervently for what little time it has. Such a tiny creature, and yet such enormous life inside of it. And even in death, it never truly admitted defeat. It could not overcome death, but it surely did not have to leave the world with anything but the utmost of poise.

The other essay I enjoyed was Rider's "Three Voices". The format, the different points of view, it almost seemed like a stream of counciousness piece. In the three or four paragraphs she wrote, Rider was able to harness the tension and confusion of love, adultery, pain. Such things often occur in real life as well, and the mind does not process them with good grammar or well-thought-out sentences with appropriate diction, but rather facts, like bullet points, as Rider demonstrated with the quick changes in view and the words and definitions at the very end.

Translations

"So, seen any good movies lately?" he asks me. I sort of smile.
"A couple. Haven't been in a really long time," I reply.
Translation: Why, you gonna take me on a date?
He smiles as well.
"What's your favorite movie of all time?" he asks. He's desperate to learn as much as he can about me.
"Fifth Element," I reply.
Translation: I'm into movies with strong female characters, plus action, plus humor. All necessary.
"Never seen it," he admits. If my dropped jaw and stare weren't enough, I also included this:
"Are you for real?"
Translation: You've got to be kidding me. If we're serious about this whole dating thing, you gotta watch it. Soon.
"Favorite book?"
I snort.
Translation: Too many to freaking count, buster.
"Favorite subject in school?"
"Recess," I replied, then sighed. "Science, or English."
Translation: So I'm a nostalgic geek, but that doesn't necessarily mean I have to tell you right?
"Hmmm," he ponders and I feel as though the conversation is going to take a turn down Serious Lane.
"Ever been in any relationships before?"
"Just one."
Translation: He broke my heart, I don't want to talk about it.
He hesitates. "Ever been kissed?"
I smile. "Do parents count?"
Translation: My coy response should tell you yes. You've been kissed too, otherwise you wouldn't care. You're protective, I think I like it. . .
He understands my supposedly innocent response.
"Ever been in love?" His voice is quiet and I know exactly what he's thinking. There's something in his blue eyes and I know he loves me already.
"Yep."
Translation: Head over heels. . . and you happen to be the lucky guy.

cell phone

Relationships can be scary, especially when you're young and you don't know much about the person you like. Lucky for me and my generation, cell phones were the next big thing. I didn't know much about him at all, except his name, a few things he liked to do, and kind of where he lived. When we got off the bus after our first "date", our cell phones were always glued to our hands. Through my phone I found out more and more about him. We texted mostly, scared to actually call the other person and ask what you'd consider semi-personal questions. The more I learned, the more intrigued I was. The only reason I'd go home from school was because I knew when I got home, he'd text me while I did my homework, while I cooked dinner, before bed to say good night. Over two years later, we're still together, though after that first month's $600 phone bill, it's a miracle we're even alive.

I was standing behind the counter at work, ringing up people at top speed, taking care of two customers at once, grabbing bags for the people with seven and eight items, all while the chatter of people on their stupid cell phones went on in the background. They would approach me, not saying hello, not catching my eye, not even taking the two seconds to pretend I existed, because obviously the person on the phone was just that much more important. They don't want the people they're on the phone with to know where they are, so they mouth the name of what cigarettes they want as if I'm just supposed to catch it. And often times, I do, mostly out of practice. Of the 2000 customers I handle each day, about 85%. . . are on their cell phones. They're inconsiderate, they're rude, they're loud and obnoxious. As if I really needed to know about your construction plans, or your marital problems. . . nope, not one bit. So, please, hang up. . . it's common curtesy.

They used to be the size of bricks. Literally. Cell phones so huge, they covered an entire side of your face when you held them up to your ear. They were only good for one thing, of course. . . calling other people. But, no. Not anymore. Now, they have become one of the most versatile pieces of equipment ever. Small enough to fit in your pocket, but with capabilities unlike anything else. You can call, text, send pictures, take pictures, get online to check your e-mail, hook up your blue tooth, do a million and one things all with one tiny piece of equipment. . . the BlackBerry. Next generation? I guess you could say that, if what you mean is a generation of people literally addicted to their phones. Can't live without them for two minutes, must always have their e-mail at their fingertips. . . Not exactly what I have in mind for the next generation, but then again. . . why else would they call the "latest technology" a CrackBerry? :P

The View

It's the same old view it's always been, but tonight it just seems different. As I lean against my dresser, I stare out the window, fifteen stories up, out at the lights of Tempe. My kitten sits on the dresser and I stroke his soft fur as we gaze out the window together. Everyone down there is so small. The little dots of light riddle the landscape like the scintillation of stars as their light enters our atmosphere. The frat houses across the street are as alive and overflowing as they usually are. The tiny people that run across the street, continuing their ever-important, busy lives seem surreal as I stare down at them. The arrows painted in white on the black roads tell people which directions to go, how to get there. The lines they must stay inside, the rules they must obey, all symbolic of life. But why? Who made these rules and what gave him the right? Who says I can't go skipping up the street singing as loud as my lungs will allow without "disturbing the peace" or that I have to pay to see natural sites like the Grand Canyon, when no one actually owns it? Those busy people and their busy lives. Do they find the time to enjoy life or simply push themselves through it, living day by day until they finally realize how close their life is to ending. . .
My roommate interrupts me, concern in her voice as she asks if I'm okay. I smile at her. Yes, I'm okay. . . a hypocrit, but okay. I felt sympathy for those people and their busy lives, and yet it's time to get back to mine. My homework that waits, the studying that must get done, the taxes I still have to file. My life is no different from theres, to be truthful. It's all a matter of perspective.

My car Skip

I clambered awkwardly out of the car, my bulky purse getting caught on the steering wheel. With a sigh, I disentangled myself, twisting and turning until I was finally free. I pushed down the old school lock with my fingers, and shut the door. I smiled slightly, remembering the day I'd gotten my car. He was my April Fool's baby. My 1968 Volkswagen beetle, completely restored, turbo-charged and painted a spectacular sunburst yellow. I'd gotten him on April 1st, 2006. Back then he was badly abused. His interior was ripped and torn, the pale yellow stuffing of the seats hanging out. The floor was littered with cigarette butts, joints and the occassional beer can. The front end was smashed, making my baby's smile look disjointed and his eyes all squinty. He came completely factory, with only one tiny mirror, a thin steering wheel and a sticky clutch. He was in terrible shape. . . he was perfect. It took months upon months of blood, sweat and tears from both me and my family to make him what he was now. . . a Bug-o-rama worthy baby. . . my Skip. Even now as I shut the door and walk away, I realize just how cute Skip is, how his personality and mine match so well, how I can never get rid of him, and how my first car ever at age 16 is my dream car. I smile at the thought and begin to haul my things across the parking lot to my dorm room. It takes me a good five minutes, but soon I'm approaching Manzanita, the smoker's circle inhabitated by a bunch of guys. One in particular that I noticed was typical looking. He wore a white brand-name shirt with "Aeropostale" written in strange black letters across his chest. His jeans were baggy, hanging off of him, sagging disgustingly just like everyone elses. His blue, childish boxers did not help the situation and I wondered if he realized he was a walking billboard. The cigarette dangling between his fingers didn't help his appeal, either. His eyes connected with mine and I quickly dropped mine to the ground, walking swiftly up the ramp towards the door.
"Look at her, trying to be all badass in her QuikTrip uniform."
His statement was met with the laughter of four of his smoking buddies. I stopped for a moment, contemplating whether or not to turn around. Yes, I was in uniform. My khaki shorts, my red QT shirt with my circular little nametag centered on the left side of my chest. A studded, black belt held up my pants, my shirt was tucked in and my shoes were beaten with years of wear and tear. My clothes were dirty, my hair was a mess, and I was dog tired. His laughter was still echoing in my ears and for a moment I contemplated turning around and beating his ass. But the moment passed and I walked towards the door.
That's just giving him what he wants, Jess. I reminded myself. A smile formed on my lips. Besides, my turbo-charged Skip would give him a run for his money any day. . .