For some reason, Mike and I embarked on kind of a cleaning frenzy around the house during the time we had off over Christmas. We ransacked both of the closets in the basement, setting aside things to sell at the garage sale we plan to have this summer, and then tackled the closet in my office, which was full of a myriad of non-office-related items, as well as some file boxes that contained a bunch of things from both of our pasts that we have never been quite ready to part with. In one of the boxes was a blue binder that contained about 100 pages of miscellaneous writing that I did during the apparently rather tumultuous and angsty period of my life that covered the tail end of grade 12 through to a few months after I started dating Mike. It’s awful and it’s cheesy (oh, so awful and so cheesy) and I thought y’all might enjoy a few excerpts and thusly a quick peek into my subconscious from a decade ago.
From a poem called “The Pedestal You”, which I apparently wrote after beginning a tortured love affair with my dentist:
Now I’m terrified, so scared that my teeth are aching
You said that this is going to be really complicated —
Well, it’s started already
I want to be not where I am
I want to be where you are
And I’m scared that when I finally get to be where you are, the you I expected won’t be there
From a poem called “Watching You Smile”, in which I decide to experiment a little with The Irony:
Would you come here for a minute?
I won’t keep you but a moment
I need you here, with me, just long enough for me to find the time
To beg you not to go
Introduction to Act One, Scene One of a short play called “A Matter of Course”, in which I apparently wanted everything to be something, but not something else:
EMMA and a MAN
EMMA is a young woman in her late teens. She is petite and attractive, but not beautiful. She seems innocent, and you instantly feel the need to protect her. Dressed in flannel pajamas, she is reading in bed.
The MAN is a thirtysomething male; he is rugged and compelling, but not handsome. He is of average height and there is nothing extraordinary about his appearance, but still, you sense a charisma hiding underneath his tanned skin. Dressed in simple jeans and a navy blue t-shirt, giving him a worn, if not somewhat streetwise, appearance. He is seated backwards in the chair by EMMA’s desk.
EMMA is reading, propped up on a pillow, in a large bed, the ample coverings on the bed suggesting the temperature in the room is somewhat cool. Lit by a small desk lamp on her headboard, the room is sparsely decorated, but not uncomfortable. The MAN sits in the chair that accompanies a desk in the corner, the desk piled high with books and school supplies; there is a calendar on the wall by the desk, several months behind the actual date. A framed photograph sits on the desk.
The MAN is watching EMMA. She appears unaware of his presence.
And lastly, the touching, heart-wrenching denouement of a short story I wrote called “Whispered Eulogy”, which inexplicably features a narrator who is about to get married and is somehow flooded with memories of her childhood friend’s funeral:
Rising from the bed, I resumed packing. I had a past to put into boxes. And a promise to make.
There’s lots more where that came from, but I think this is all I can take for right now. Lest my teeth start to ache, or something that makes slightly more sense. Or, really, any sense at all.