I just finished watching this week's episode of Grey's Anatomy. I'm alone in my dark bedroom at the end of a happy day. I have (or will have) what I want: a lead in a play this summer; a good paying job so I can move away in August; my AA in May; the beginning of a journalism career; a (physically) healthy family; so much more.
That theme song, though, the little quirky beeps and the lady's haunting voice "Nobody knows..." reminds me of my life a year ago, of dark quiet nights in this bedroom, watching that show, fearing that I will forever be alone because one man, one boy, decided I wasn't good enough. And it still hurts, to feel that rejection all over again, to feel it only because a few bars of a melody reminded me of it.
But I'm okay. I'm happy. I have a full day ahead of me and full days ensure me that I am not empty, that people in places need me to be there, that they will notice that the spot I sit in is empty or that the lull in coversation is a moment I would fill with a question about someone else's weekend, or a subtle joke about the teacher, or the guy outside with... ya know, the hair. Or I would mention the way I just embarrassed myself by singing that song about birds from Broadway really badly, really off key when I thought no one was looking.
I have two stories for the Star Banner, which makes me happy.
I have a guy who wants to hang out with me, which makes me happy and scared. Scared because even though I'm happy, I'm happy because I feel good enough in my little bubble of family and friends. Other people still have the power to make me feel not good enough. And that sucks.
I'm working on it though.
I'm still a work in progress.
Amanda 2.0... still only 1.4. But tomorrow is a chance for 1.5.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
ring.
When my grandmother was little, she used to cry. She sat alone, in the dark, in her bedroom. She cried as her mother's various boyfriends came by the house and drunkenly partied until dawn. So she swore she would never drink or have drinking in her home.
Today, I cry too. But it is not because there is loud, wild, intoxicated laughing, crying, and fighting. I cry because of the silence. Today, Billy came into the house like it was nothing. Like he hadn't moved out in October because he was in love with another woman, who he had been with for a year and a half. He walked in, looked at me. We made eye contact, he said nothing. He went to the refridgerator, then went to his former bedroom and plopped down on the bed. I hear the croak of the bed as he shifts.
The phone rings. But I've left the room. I'll not answer it. I've retreated to my own bedroom, like my grandmother before me.
There is another silence. Another creak.
The phone rings again. This time, my mother comes outside my door, asking where the phone is.
"By the game, where I just was."
The front door squeaks. I'm unsure of who is coming or going.
The door closes. It always makes a squeak, then a thump as the whole foundation of our nearly forty year old home gives a little shudder, as if to say, "There's just too many opens and shuts, squeaks and slams."
The last time I saw that door and Billy was when he picked up a chair from our dining room and threw it across the room, where it bounced off the wall and into our glass table. The table gave a shrill sigh as its pieces were suddenly relocated throughout the kitchen, dining room and living room.
He and I paused, as if unsure whether we were caught in a bad dream, some unreal reality. In another world, I would be the first to scream, to rise up to the anger from my mother's devistation, to throw something back, to make him know what a terrible human he was, what a painful position he had put my family in, how much it hurt to see, to hear, my mother hurt. But in this world, he is the first. His words don't even make any sense. All I hear is the piercing bullets of his screams, as "fucks" go flying and his anger heats the room, setting my armhair up, my ankles unsteady, my adreniline pulsing.
Why didn't I just leave, retreat to my room, let him destroy the house? It is his, after all.
I took it. I let him scream at me, until he was crying and racing to separate parts of the house, turning on the lights, turning on the lights. Checking every room, as if to find a sign that this was not his life, that this was not where he had quietly lived for most of his life.
But it was. This was real. The phone rings. He was real. Ring. I was real. Ring.
Finally, he quieted to sniffles. He pulled out a trash bag.
Still, I stood there, afraid for what would happen if I let it go, if I didn't speak to him in a convincing tone of reassurance and calm, if I didn't baby him into not harming me or anything else in the house. Ring Ring Ring.
Finally, I answer. My mother says that she is coming home. I tell him. He doesn't want to be here. He leaves. He says he's sorry, that he loves me.
Today, I cry too. But it is not because there is loud, wild, intoxicated laughing, crying, and fighting. I cry because of the silence. Today, Billy came into the house like it was nothing. Like he hadn't moved out in October because he was in love with another woman, who he had been with for a year and a half. He walked in, looked at me. We made eye contact, he said nothing. He went to the refridgerator, then went to his former bedroom and plopped down on the bed. I hear the croak of the bed as he shifts.
The phone rings. But I've left the room. I'll not answer it. I've retreated to my own bedroom, like my grandmother before me.
There is another silence. Another creak.
The phone rings again. This time, my mother comes outside my door, asking where the phone is.
"By the game, where I just was."
The front door squeaks. I'm unsure of who is coming or going.
The door closes. It always makes a squeak, then a thump as the whole foundation of our nearly forty year old home gives a little shudder, as if to say, "There's just too many opens and shuts, squeaks and slams."
The last time I saw that door and Billy was when he picked up a chair from our dining room and threw it across the room, where it bounced off the wall and into our glass table. The table gave a shrill sigh as its pieces were suddenly relocated throughout the kitchen, dining room and living room.
He and I paused, as if unsure whether we were caught in a bad dream, some unreal reality. In another world, I would be the first to scream, to rise up to the anger from my mother's devistation, to throw something back, to make him know what a terrible human he was, what a painful position he had put my family in, how much it hurt to see, to hear, my mother hurt. But in this world, he is the first. His words don't even make any sense. All I hear is the piercing bullets of his screams, as "fucks" go flying and his anger heats the room, setting my armhair up, my ankles unsteady, my adreniline pulsing.
Why didn't I just leave, retreat to my room, let him destroy the house? It is his, after all.
I took it. I let him scream at me, until he was crying and racing to separate parts of the house, turning on the lights, turning on the lights. Checking every room, as if to find a sign that this was not his life, that this was not where he had quietly lived for most of his life.
But it was. This was real. The phone rings. He was real. Ring. I was real. Ring.
Finally, he quieted to sniffles. He pulled out a trash bag.
Still, I stood there, afraid for what would happen if I let it go, if I didn't speak to him in a convincing tone of reassurance and calm, if I didn't baby him into not harming me or anything else in the house. Ring Ring Ring.
Finally, I answer. My mother says that she is coming home. I tell him. He doesn't want to be here. He leaves. He says he's sorry, that he loves me.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
L-O-V-E
Inspired by Laura's post.
Love is difficult and long. It is ambitous and a bitch. It is heavy and insecure, but crazy-soft to touch. It is hard to say and hard to hear, but easy to hang on to. It is really whatever you want, but it is rarely whatever you need. It is a flash of warmth on a winter Florida night. It is a constantly ringing telephone that you just cannot answer. It is not how they write about it in movies and songs. It is unstable, explosive at any moment. Love changes. It is never the same as you left it last night. It has different forms. It is impossible to be in love with someone who hurts you, but you will probably continue to love them. Love is when you cry when it is gone. It is when you look into the sun and see that light can come from other sources. Love is a candle that flickers and melts, leaving you with wax to mold into another candle.
Love is only you. When you are lucky and probably when you don't know it, love is someone else too.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Realistically Michael
Oh. My. Good. Lord. Can we talk about how much I completely adore Michael Buble? I've got a fever now and it's not just cause I'm sick today.
I'm not the type of girl who chases after boys. I've only had three boyfriends my whole life. One I liked, one I didn't, and one who lived 600 miles away, so I spent 3 weeks trying to pretend like it could work.
But Michael. He's the brand of boy I want, I need.
I have to get up in like four hours or so and I there's no way I can go to sleep after watching interviews with him.
Maybe that should be my goal, to become a journalist just to get a chance to interview him, convince him that he needs me in his life forever, then take me home and sing to me while removing my clothes.
Okay. That's unrealistic. Why would he sing to me? Duh, we'll be making out.
I do feel sorry for him. He's essentially every girl's brand of guy, so women just go crazy for him, so he gets weird presents, weird fan mail, and even weirder people at his concerts.
But he's great. He's awesome. That's why everyone wants him and that's why I'll never get him. Even though it is deemed that a good man will come into my life... (maybe one day, in like 10 years when 30 is the new 58)... it will not be him because he's too good for that.
I'm not the type of girl who chases after boys. I've only had three boyfriends my whole life. One I liked, one I didn't, and one who lived 600 miles away, so I spent 3 weeks trying to pretend like it could work.
But Michael. He's the brand of boy I want, I need.
I have to get up in like four hours or so and I there's no way I can go to sleep after watching interviews with him.
Maybe that should be my goal, to become a journalist just to get a chance to interview him, convince him that he needs me in his life forever, then take me home and sing to me while removing my clothes.
Okay. That's unrealistic. Why would he sing to me? Duh, we'll be making out.
I do feel sorry for him. He's essentially every girl's brand of guy, so women just go crazy for him, so he gets weird presents, weird fan mail, and even weirder people at his concerts.
But he's great. He's awesome. That's why everyone wants him and that's why I'll never get him. Even though it is deemed that a good man will come into my life... (maybe one day, in like 10 years when 30 is the new 58)... it will not be him because he's too good for that.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Kumari Schmuari
Virgins in Nepal have long been worshipped and thought sacred, especially the Kumari, or Living Goddess.
This is a girl chosen as the reincarnation of Taleju, a former mythological queen of Nepal who caught her husband playing games with a snake, so she left with a vow that she would only come back to her life as a girl, pure and happy.
Today, the Kumari are selected by a process in which the girls go through odd rituals in an effort to determine whether these girls are really the reincarnation of Taleju. An examination of the girl's teeth, hair, skin, and body (including the intimate areas) determines whether she is physically akin to the once-queen. After the girl is decided to be physically flawless and bodily healthy, she is matched with a test of her fears and insecurities in a dark room of slaughtered animal heads. If she keeps calm and unafraid, she is even closer to the title of Living Goddess.
If she wins over the other contenders, she is given the title and the respect of millions of adoring Buddists and Hindus. Carried on her own throne at all times, she is cared for and attended to at all times. Rarely leaving her own palace, she allows audiences with people in need of blessings and hope. The people kiss her feet, which remain uncovered at all times, and watch her for signs of their own fates. If she is still and silent, it is the highest blessing of all.
Once she begins to menstrate, however, she loses everything and is returned to the family she only knew in formal, public engagements. It is rumored that any marriage to her is cursed and the husband will not survive six months. Essentially, these girls are doomed to maid-hood for their lives if the superstition is believed. However, most of the former kumaris have had long-lasting marriages with several children.
Right, three-year-old Matani Shakya was named the highest kumari on Oct. 7, 2008.
Children's and women's rights activists worry about this girl's future. She is blessed and adored now, but she will be shunned by men once she reaches womanhood. Is this a healthy practice?
Healthy or not, it's an ideology that's been around since the 17th century, yet it's an ideology opposed by activists, who should be saving their energies for the problems of prostitution and malnourished, orphaned children in Africa. There are 12-year-olds taking care of their younger siblings because their parents have succombed to the AIDS virus.
Activists fret over the pychological implications of the kumari. What about the pychological implications of children without parents and without food?
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Story Ideas
1) How is it decided that school should be closed? Who decides what amount of rain is unsafe?
Need to talk to:
Students (get opinions, do they think that the schools are choosing the right amount of time to be open/closed? how do missing classes due to hurricanes affect them?)
VP of School (when is it unsafe for students to come to school?)
Teachers (how does missing a day of class change their classes?)
Need to talk to:
Students (get opinions, do they think that the schools are choosing the right amount of time to be open/closed? how do missing classes due to hurricanes affect them?)
VP of School (when is it unsafe for students to come to school?)
Teachers (how does missing a day of class change their classes?)
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