The start of something.

(found in my notebook, scribbled down yesteryear, originally intended to be the beginning of something longer, which thing is now on the back-burner as more pressing deadlines loom)

When it began, it was in such small ways that nobody took notice. A small crack appeared in a wall, and all of the usual culprits were blamed: poor workmanship, deterioration with age, sudden shift in humidity. Children playing in the fields jumped over a ditch, and couldn’t reach the other side, though they had always been able to jump across before. A stone bridge that had always been there was suddenly absent one day, and not a trace of it could be found, which caused no end of frustration to those who counted upon it. But it must have been just one of those things for which no reason is ever found. These things are few and far between, and their odd occurrences become the stuff of legend. So the old bridge as certain to be remembered in late-night stories that children would whisper to unsettle each other, and to prove that they were brave. The Tale of the Missing Bridge, it would be called. And certainly that’s the way things would have gone if it had been the only oddity that summer. But when the children ran to the river the next day to see the place where the bridge had been, they discovered that not only was there no bridge, there was also no river. No river-bed. No trace left of there ever having been one. The hills that had marked the land on the other side of the river were now just in front of them, mere steps away. That night, tales were told in the inn by distant travelers, that the missing river was only one strange happening in a world where such happenings were becoming increasingly common. Where a mountain had been one day, there was now a pit that appeared to have no bottom. Healthy forests were overnight turned to barren, empty places. There were far fewer stars in the sky now than ever before, and if anybody stared at them with enough concentration, it was clear that more disappeared every night.

The world was falling apart.

Excerpt from “How A Student Should Behave” by John of Garland (13th Century)

fancyprosestyle:

The sage of Miletus set down these rules of polite behaviour for which we should be grateful.  Regulate your household soberly; do your civic duties cheerfully; have a word of greeting for strangers as for friends; do your utmost to avoid altercations with irate associates; with a smile and a witticism cover up the faults of others; be faultless at table, glad even to entertain your enemies; bear your misfortunes with fortitude and do not let your head be turned by good fortune…Even though you be a Socrates, if you have rude manners, you are a ditch-digger.

- from The Viking Portable Medieval Reader, which takes it from Morale Scholarium, trans. L.J. Paetow (Berkeley, California: University of California Press, 1927).

A note to those who may…

…find themselves in the Czech Republic, not speaking much Czech.

Ahem.

If you see something listed in the “salaty” (SALAD) portion of the menu, and it lists among its ingredients “couscous” (COUSCOUS), please note:

It is not a SALAD.

It’s just COUSCOUS.

Happy traveling.

Written On Inauguration Day Four Years Ago

Tuesday, November 2nd, 2004 was going to be the day that I helped change the world. The possibility of that change flooded my thoughts and adrenaline my heart at the knowledge of what goodness the day would bring. I was unable to sleep. Rolling fitfully in my bed, my eyes wide open, my thoughts so clear and infused with optimism.

How do you sleep the night before you change the world?

I gave up on sleep in the middle of the night. I read news articles on the internet. I tried to watch SportsCenter, but found that I could not focus on the scores. I returned to my computer and read more news articles. I showered, I dressed, and I arrived at my polling place 45 minutes before it opened, because I could think of no place else to go.

I felt change.

They say to “write what you know.” They seem to be on to something. So from now on, I am going to write what I know, beginning with this brief list:

I know the quadratic equation.
I know the words to all the theme songs from the Disney Afternoon.
I know by heart the delivery phone number for Yummy House.
I know how to connect anyone to Kevin Bacon in no more than six steps.
I know how to program the clock on the VCR.
I know verses by Shakespeare, Thoreau, and Dr. Dre.
I know what subtext is.
I know the entire cast lists of Saved by the Bell and every incarnation of Star Trek. Except “Enterprise.”
I know how to bullshit a five paragraph essay the morning that it’s due and
I know how to get an A on it.
I know that this information will be of no more help to me in my life, ever.
I know every phone number that I learned before 2001, but none since because
I know how to use the phone book on my cellular.
I know the New Testament like the back of my hand and I know why it’s wrong like the back of my other hand.
I know that my disease with religion rests somewhere between reasonable and overly harsh.
I know how to tie a tie in about three tries.
I know how to cook pasta on a stove.
I know the difference between “your” and “you’re.”
I know how to use an apostrophe and
I know you hate it when I tell you that you misused it, but
I also know for sure that you’re going to have to deal with it until you learn.

I know that this life is far, far too short and
I know that that is both unfair and wonderful.

I know what the world looks like from the Eiffel Tower, the Empire State Building, and 38,000 feet.
I know that a surefire sign of youth is being either too optimistic or too cynical, and I can feel myself vacillating between the two extremes with very little regard for the middle ground.
I know what hope feels like.
I know what it felt like to cast my vote on that cold, dark morning and
I know the joy I felt because I was going to do more than just vote. The shame I would feel at the end of the day for not doing enough. I loaded into a rental car packed with people. I listened to NPR and discussed how much we would win by. How tomorrow the world would forgive us. How these four fast friends and I would take Philadelphia by storm. How we would change the world, together.

We waved signs and sent shouts skyward, responding to car horns of acclamation and jeers from the opposition. I walked miles through a city I did not know, ringing doorbells and begging people to claim their constitutional right to make their voice heard. A man in a business suit saw our signs and spit on us, and we did not know how to react. An old woman smiled at us, and saluted us, and told us that she could not wait for us all to get drafted so that we could go to Iraq and die. My stomach reacted violently to a sleepless night, ten cups of coffee, and no food at all. I struggled through the pain, following winding suburban streets to knock on the doors of strangers. I told myself that there was no possible way the Republicans were as disorganized as my party was, with our mish-mash lists and uncertain leaders. I felt pride at doing my part for change. I felt cocky for supposing to go to a neighboring state to tell them what to do. I felt elation at victory achieved in Pennsylvania. Then I felt sickness as I finally collapsed into bed, unable to even comprehend what had happened.

So I want to write what I know. But I also want to write hope, and right now I fear that the two are incompatible. I want to write that knowledge is power, and I want to write that I live in a world of compassion, and in a country of wisdom and goodness. I want to write that a few young, scrappy people can affect social change and I don’t want to be made to feel childish for believing that.

I want to sing, and I want to dance, and I want to say that this is worth it, and that this matters. I want to learn and love, and I want to come to the end of my meager allotment of days knowing that I have lived.

I want to stand in a high, open place and scream how wonderful it all is, how wonderful and strange.

I want to know joy.

I want to write these things, but these are things I hope and want. These are not things that I know. What I know feels too useless and cheap, too old and too weak. Too hopeless. Too cynical. Like Fox Mulder’s poster, I want to believe. I want to write boldly and speak loudly.

I want to know these things I hope. More than I can say.

So forget it. Forget the maxim and the teaching and the common wisdom. I am going to write what I do not know. I am going to write what I hope unwaveringly. Because knowledge springs from hope, and if that’s not true then it ought to be.

So sing and dance and shout from a high, open place. Don’t let one day or four years or eight years decide the way you’ll see the world. Sing loudly. Dance boldly. Shout with all you possess. Our ignorance will become our strength, and our words will change this world.

And if you say to me that this is the naiveté of youth, then I say “Fuck you, and fuck getting older, because I believe in a world of hope!”

Or, at the very least, I believe in a world where I can hope for hope.

I think that’s what I’ll be writing from now on.

Because the World Needs to Read My Twilight FanFic

It was raining. In my heart. Also outside. The windshield wipers on my old (but in a charming, not an ew gross sort of way) truck kept time with the beating of my heart. Which was slow. Slower than yours. I sighed.

I pulled into the parking lot of my new high school, and looked at the faces of all the students streaming into class. Their happy faces smiling brightly even as the weather was so, so dark. In my heart. Also outside.

I stepped out of my truck and walked slowly into the administration building. I didn’t use an umbrella. I wanted to feel the water. Like actually feel it. On my long, dark hair which always looked wet anyway. I had been told. I didn’t know what to believe.

The secretary behind the desk was plump and jovial, wearing some ostentatious floral pattern which couldn’t hide the pain in her eyes. “Oh, hi hon,” she said, patronizingly. “Who are you, now? Are you our new girl?”

“I guess that’s me,” I sighed, blinking back tears. “Bella Duck. Here for my first day of school. I just moved here from someplace warm. I didn’t fit in there. Either.”

“Well, you’re gonna wanna be running along to room 601. If you need help finding it, just ask anybody. Everyone here’s real nice.”

I’m sure. I’m so sure they were nice. But I knew I could find it on my own. It took me like half an hour, but I did find it. I did. I was late.

Wasn’t I always?

My first class was chemistry. Or maybe physics. I don’t like science. Not enough feeling in it. I sat at an empty lab station and listened to the teacher’s quiet droning try to pierce the veil of my ennui. As ever, she was unsuccessful. Like everyone. Would always be. 

That’s when I saw him. Him. Him. The single most beautiful creature I had ever seen. He was beautiful. He was pale like milk. His eyes were dark like the sky on a moonless night. And his hair did that thing where it was short all over and then sort of randomly spiky and then stuck up in the front.

“Hey,” I heard a pleasant voice say next to me. “Are you new here?”

I turned to look at the face behind the voice. I was disgusted. “Why?” I sighed (I don’t really say, I just sigh. They sound similar when you say them aloud, but feel so much different to actually say.)

“Oh, I just don’t remember seeing you,” said the totally put-together, regular, well-adjusted person speaking to me. “My name’s Matt. Do you want to be lab partners?”

I turned and stared at that lovely creature on the other side of the room. I sighed, I think. Twice.

“Um, hey… I don’t mean to overstep, as we just met, but you might want to consider staying away from that guy.”

I spun with rage to face this so-called Matt. “WHAT DO YOU CARE?” I shouted. Nobody even looked at me.

“Well…” he said, trying his best to soften the blow. “That guy’s name is Morculent, or something. He only hangs out with his siblings, all of whom look like that. So they’re either white supremacists, or they’re vampires. Like legitimately vampires who will kill you and turn you into one of their kind. Either way, that guy is a jerk. I offered him an invitation to a party one time and he set it on fire. While I was still holding it out to him. He hates women. Actually, he just hates people. All people. And I’m a perfectly sane, nice guy who thinks you’re pretty and will be legitimately interested in things you tell me and will want to spend time with you and will actually help you with your homework when we have “homework dates” because I think that being a well-rounded person is important and even if what we have between us doesn’t blossom into anything like romance you will have, on your first day of school, met somebody who is likely to be a very good friend to you and who will treat you with a modicum of respect and…”

I turned to stare at Morculent as Paul or whatever his name was droned on. Morculent stared back at me. I felt my heart quicken. I stared at him. He stared at me.

I stared.

He stared.

We stared.

There was only one thought in my mind at that moment. All else disappeared immediately.

“How,” I thought, “Many books do you think I could get out of this?”