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2006-09-04 - 9:44 a.m. College Writing One oh One A sampling of "on the spot" essays I wrote during my college writing class in 2002. When I was thirteen, my older sister took me to see a play at her High School - "The Diary of Anne Frank." I don't know what it must have been that had been building up inside of me all those years, but when I left the theatre I knew exactly what I wanted to be in life. I didn't want to be Anne Frank (for obvious reasons) and I didn't want to be the keeper of some famous diary. I just wanted to be her!... that girl who had played Anne Frank in my sister's High School play. But since I couldn't actually BE her, the closest thing I could do was to immitate who she had been on stage. It's funny how we play out our fantasies. So... I made my mom help me drag out all the junk from the little cubical closet under our stairs and fill it with the things I needed. For days I spent designing my own little Anne Frank hideaway, finally achieving the results I was looking for with the focal point being an old desk... and on it a brand new spiral bound notebook. It was during my afterschool hours of my eighth grade year that I discovered the thrill of sitting down to a totally blank sheet of paper. That notebook got me through a lot of growing up times. I eventually shed my closet and turned into a somewhat normal teenager. I've written tons of junk since then (perhaps some of it profound but for the most part worth burning)... but enough to fill up a trunk anyway. But never once have I ever lost the absolute sense of wonder and adventure that is sitting down to a clean, fresh sheet of paper. If I had to look back on my youth (of course that would be looking back a long, long time) the one word that would stick out most clearly in my mind would be "simplicity." It's a word I long for my children to know and yet with the accelerated pace at which our children live their lives nowdays I doubt that it will ever be a part of their vocabulary. Back in the "olden days" you could take your bike out with your friends early on a Saturday morning and not return until dusk - without being grounded for worrying your parents sick! I remember walking miles (okay, an exageration) to the "liquor store" which translated as the "candy store" with a quarter in my pocket... and coming home with a whole bag of goodies to show for it! Then there was playing kickball in the vacant lot (back when there WERE vacant lots) into all hours of the evening with a big orange ball that looked just like the moon did on some of those evenings. Perhaps I'm just remembering how things looked through the eyes of a child. I'm sure that children today will someday look back on their own wonderful memories. Afterall, look what they have... 130 TV channels at their fingertips (without even having to leave the sofa), an internet to the world which stays open 24 hours a day and access to just about anything their little hearts could desire. How lucky is that? I shouldn't feel bad that they have never been forced to experience the "trudgery" of a walk through a six foot high field of grass, or the smell of a slightly damp cardboard refrigerator box/spaceship... or especially the unforgettable yet fleeting feel of a wet frog. I'm sitting here in my room at the "Lanai Gardens" motel in San Jose. I picked this spot off the internet because it was convenietly located for my "business" here this weekend... and because it sounded like it would be nice and peaceful. It's 10 pm and there's not another room available in this God-forsaken, people-infested town. My room overlooks the lovely sight, sounds and smells of a major thoroughfare also known as the onramp to Highway 101, leading up towards San Francisco. It's is a truck route as well. Occassionally an empty beer bottle, thrown from a passing vehicle, crashes into the side of the building just below my window, shattering any semblence of thought that may have been forming. I have a paper due on Monday. It's Saturday night. I haven't even begun to write it. I don't even know at this point what my analysis will be about. I've, at very least, skimmed every story in this book to somehow find two stories with enough likeness or difference to construct a viable comparison. Each time an idea starts to creep into my mind and a tiny flicker of a flame appears it is extinguished almost immediately by the thunderous roar of an exhaust pipe from a vehicle zooming past. There is no air in this room and the thing-a-ma-bob on the AC unit has been removed. The management must think that 80 degrees is the optimum temperature year round. It is much cooler outside and so my only option is to open my window... Lovely "garden" spot of the world this is. oops there goes another Coors Lite. It's gonna be a long night. I feel sorry for my daughter. She can't help it that, during this wonderful growing up time of hers, she has a mother who is a complete "wus" behind the wheel. She is currently in Phase I of her Driver's Education experience. She deserves to have a calm, relaxed... mature instructional experience, but that does not appear to be her destiny. I suppose you would call it a phobia. I'm not sure at all where it came from. I spent my teenage years in an automobile practically full-time. I drove close to a hundred miles a day between home, school, work, whatnot... and on the freeways of Los Angeles no less... without a seatbelt! Never thought about it in the least. But I woke up one day thought and started seeing everything imaginable darting into the path of my car. All of a sudden, cars on the other side of the road were veering towards me. Please don't tell anyone. It's OK, really. I remedy it by driving safely within the speed limit, cautiously aware of everything around me at all times and never let my foot stray too far from the brake. In otherwords, I drive like an 80 year old gramma!!! Now... this works out fine for ME, but somebody please explain to my nervous system how to remain completely calm and relaxed while my life is in the hands of the child who I fed, burped, dressed and changed.. only weeks ago.
My most embarrassing moment has yet to come. You know how it is when you go to a hairdresser for the first time and the gal does all sorts of "foofy" things to your hair and you sit there in horror thinking, "Does she really think this looks good?" Or you wonder if she's thinking, "What a poor girl, to have been born with a head of hair like this!"... even though you know perfectly well that your head of hair is perfecty good, but for some reason this gal just doesn't understand it's potential. You've been whippin' that blow dryer around for years - and it takes only 7 minutes from start to finish till you've got every hair in place and you're out the door. But for some reason, Madge here insists that your hair is gonna do something which it will never do in a million years. When she finally realizes this an hour later she proceeds with plan B. Meanwhile, you sit there thinking how all of her "artwork" will be artfully trickling down the shower drain within 60 seconds after you get home. All you wanted was a freakin' haircut afterall. So, looking twice as matronly as you did when you walked in, you leave the salon (thanking and tipping her in spite of it all) and secretly hoping that onbody else in the salon thinks you're really thrilled with your new "do." You then wonder what route to take home to avoid the liklihood of running into someone you know. So how does this fit into the subject of this essay? Well, somebday I'm going to die (as we all do) and I'll be totally at the mercy of some stranger hairdresser. And I mean, THEN what? People have been "going at it" since the beginning of time. Cain killed Abel due to a father's favored glance in his brother's direction. History is painfully full of images of people annihilating each other. Conflict is unfortunately a thing that man cannot seem to live without. Have you ever spent an evening immersed in thought over something trivial? Something really unimportant in the scheme of things? An issue? A disagreement? I admit that I have probably spent more than the average amount of time fretting over something truly inconsequential. I compare that then, to people fighting for "who" they are, fighting for their beliefs, and it makes me wonder just how far people might be willing to go for something that is truly "important." Of course, the irony here is that they are fighting to the death to protect their sacred and holy places - which to me says they have lost sight of what they are truly fighting for. Once in a great while, however, someone comes up with an ingenious plan for dealing with conflict. Nelson Mandela, who I consider one of the great hero's of our time, was able to bring an end to the devasting spirit of Aparthied in South Africa. How? By giving power to the people and by making them feel as though they had control over their own destiny. That's really all they wanted. He changed the outdated boundries thus increasing the people's ability to make changes for themselves. Hopefully, there will be someone out there again who will have enough wisdom to be able set into motion, as Mandela did, a peaceable solution. What a concept! Who would have ever thought that people could come up with such a brillinat way to wreck havoc on the planet. There is always someone out there inventing new ways of accomplishing old means. No more trudging throught dirty swamps, rifle in hand. Bombs.. so messy. Fighter jets make big annoying bangs when they boom and crash. Body parts could seriously be kept to a minimum by these means. Am I concerned? Of course. I'm concerned about drunk drivers and pediophiles and creepy people breaking into our home at night while we're sleeping. There are a million and one things to worry about. We can live in constant fear and thus empower the enemy, or we can take precautions to limit the liklihood of victemization. But the enemy will always find a way to accomplish his means, given time. How far are we willing to go? How radically can we compromise the quality of the simple things in life? I think the presecription here is just to live and enjoy each day to the fullest... and laugh with and hug those you love frequently. Truthfully?... tailgaters and teenagers in red cars scare me more. And I'm just starting to become enough at peace with the dust on my furniture to be too overly concerned with that little bit o' dust that my mail may track in... My neighbor has a beautiful lawn! As hard as I work, I can never get my yard to look nearly as good as his. There are no grooves in his lawn after he mows it, there are no weeds - ever. Occassionally a mole will borrow up through his grass, leaving an unsightly mound, but miraculously it is gone the next day - history. Each blade of grass is meticulously measured.. daily I'm sure... to assure optimum health and rejuvination. I remember once, he went on vacation and I felt so proud of my own little piece of the planet... until an hour after he returned. My neighbor has a riding mower. He loves it. Perhaps he regards it as the horse he never had as a child. He especially likes to take it out reeeelly early on weekend mornings, particularly during good sleeping weather. Last week my neighbor found out that his 16 yar old son has a form of cancer called lymphoma. His wife tells me that the prognosis is about 50%. They're having a difficult time right now, trying to juggle hosptial visits with work and all their other responsibilities. They're thinking this is going to be a very long year. Last evening another neighbor came by and mowed the lawn for him. He did a pretty good job. It looked like - a mowed lawn. It made me happy to think there are still people out there willing to rally round someone in need. This morning... 9 am, my neighbor is mowing his lawn. I think first of the fella who mowed it last evening and hope that he isn't peering out of his window as well. I feel a touch of annoyance at my neighbor's lack of appreciation. Then I realize that his lawn is something over which he has control. To his lawn he is God, and his love for it produces unquestionable and perfect results. As he circles around on his bronco I watch him and wonder just what this hour of peace might be bringing him. I think of my own children, upstairs still asleep in their beds, and realize how they'll have the rest of their lives to sleep in on a Saturday morning. And with that thought I feel an most unexplainable obligation to open my windows wide and let the noise in.
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