The sailors say I'm a fine girl. Graphic designer, illustrator, writer, reader, gamer, dreamer, storyteller. I make things and care about them. My life exists somewhere between painfully logical and lost in an overly complicated daydream.
When you look up at the night sky, how do you feel? Some find themselves feeling like giants, able to mask out a mass of energy with just the tip of their finger. Most don't even think about it much. When I looked up, I felt entirely insignificant. Was I just lucky to see the stars? Most of the time, it was hard to differentiate stars from planes and skyscrapers.
A Doctor's Office, an Old Lady with Oranges, and a Bicyclist
After only ten minutes of waiting, I began to shift uncomfortably in the chair. Ten minutes was not an awfully long time to wait in a doctor’s office, I knew that. Dad was slouched back in the chair, glancing through one of the magazines from the coffee table in the middle of the room. It was a magazine about geography. I knew my dad had no interest in geography. He was merely looking for company with anyone other than me, even if they were dull words and glossy images on a page. That’s why he kept looking up every now and then to look at me with a small smile, to illustrate how amused he was at landscapes and jungles. Dad must have imagined being in those places, where they don’t have boring sons.
Anterograde amnesia. That’s what they called it. After the accident, Wendy wasn’t able to make any new memories. She had been 6. That was 20 years ago. She was still 6. I was 7 at the time, and she was my best friend. It was difficult to tear myself away as I grew older yet she didn’t.
There was that sickly moment I’d always remember, though I cursed myself for it being so cliché. In the passenger’s seat of the car, I watched as my home got smaller and smaller in the side-view mirror. Jonathan, my son, was the one driving. It was a nice car, much nicer than the first one he had back when he was still learning to drive. Of course, it had been the family station wagon, when Irving had finally decided to buy a new one and give that one to our son. This car was all sleek lines and interior that squeaked unpleasantly. I had let out a tiny “ohh” when I sat down, causing the sound. My son had laughed.
Not Taken - An Anecdote
I heard the other girls outside. Their voices were muffled by the damp wood of the cabin. I had been sitting cross-legged on the plain blue mattress that had been assigned to me on a bottom bunk. Its frame probably once shone with fresh varnish, but the oils of many tiny fingers throughout the years had worn it down and matted it. Etched in the wood were various forms of graffiti. Mostly names, many of them couples that were only together now in those carved proclamations. Some of them were terrifying things to scare us. Better watch out. Don’t close your eyes. We all thought ourselves far too brave to let that get to us, as we would stay up past bedtime, coming up with narratives in hushed tones for these long-forgotten names and their cryptic messages.
There are only so many times one can be asked what one studies in college to be replied with “Would you like fries with that?” Art is dead; long live art.