Lack of Postage

Can be attributed to many things. Lack of inspiration? Nope, that's not it. I have written a great many things, but my sisters occasionally frequent this site, and I would have to do A LOT of editing for them to look at my stories and not judge them.

I also have decided in my infinite wisdom to return to school.

I haven't been in school since June 2001, when I was almost eighteen. So after eleven years of no educational background, I have returned to school. To say that it's been adventure is an understatement. It's going to be a long 4-year journey, that will end when I am 33 years old.

Yes, you read that correctly. I am a 29-year old college student, enrolled in an online branch of the very college I wanted to attend when I was nineteen. It's taken me ten years, but I finally got there. I am studying to receive my Bachelor's in English with an emphasis on Creative Writing, which essentially means my degree will get me no jobs when I am done. But I am pursuing my passion, so that makes me happy. Besides, Eoin Macken has a degree in Psychology and he's an actor, so I am not too worried.

The Hellish Eighth Grade Year

When I was fourteen, my family moved across town. In this upheaval, I had to go to a new school for my final year of middle school. And we moved literally two weeks before school started. My first day was horrible, and it set the tone for how the rest of my school year was going to go.

Titanic

Titanic

Today you sunk six miles beneath the Atlantic.

Your opulent fixtures forever marred.
The once-majestic ocean liner
Is no more.

One-hundred years later,
You lie beneath the sea;
Rusted, and covered in aquatic life.
Your opulent staterooms stand as tombs,
Telling stories of tragedy.

Into the depths of a frigid April night
You were lost forever.

You are not forgotten.
Nor are the many people
You carried across the vast ocean.

-Written April 15, 2012

Untitled Titanic Poem

I originally wrote this on April 15.  I posted it on another blog of mine, where I have been selecting a poem (or two) a day for National Poetry Month.

I wrote three, but only two are worth reading.  This second one is a bit longer, and is based more on the 1997 film.  It’s told from the point of view of a first or second class female passenger.

The night she sank
I was in my stateroom,
Writing in my journal.

When she struck the iceberg,
It slightly resembled an earthquake.
I felt like I was in San Francisco again.

The atmosphere was calm,
As if nothing untoward had happened.
And then, it was chaos.

People screaming,
Climbing into lifeboats,
And first-class ladies
Requesting their best coats from their maids.

The ship begins sinking at an angle
As my lifeboat is lowered.
People are crying out
To whatever God they believe in,
For help and mercy on their lives.
Women and children are forcibly ripped,
From husbands and fathers.

My lifeboat floats far from the fray.
And with frightened eyes, I watch
As the majestic Titanic
Sinks beneath the Atlantic.

The cries of those unfortunate souls
Bobbing and struggling in the icy water
Chills my body more than the cold air outside.
A few of us urge the crewman to save them,
But he refuses.

Eventually, the screams stop.
Hundreds of people dot the water,
Lifeless and cold.

Absolution comes in the form of the Carpathia.
No Titanic, but she is warm;
And I am grateful to be heading home.

Seventh Grade Art Class

This is based on a true experience.  The sick girl is me, around 13 years old in Art Class.  

The room is cold.  She is visibly shaking, as her teacher looks critically at her papier-mâché skeleton.  This girl is frightened unlike she’s ever been.  The teacher turns her figure back to its creator.

“Would you call this a satisfactory piece of art?”

“Yes, I think so,” the girl weakly replies.  “I worked really hard on it,” she stammers.  Her heart is pumping strongly.

“Have you really worked hard on it, Miss?  You’ve missed a lot of my classes, and this skeleton reflects you lack of artistic ability.  You didn’t paint the nails holding your skeleton to the stand.  You can see the wires beneath the newspaper, so clearly you should have put more around it.  The face is poorly drawn, and I have much more criticism where that comes from.”

The girl is standing there, shaking like a leaf, fighting the burning of tears welling in her eyes.  Her teacher points evilly at the skeleton she worked very hard on.  She feels a deep-rooted cough rising into her lungs.  The girl begins explaining to her Art teacher why she’s been so absent, just as that barky cough makes its crude presence known.  The teacher wants none of her excuses, and barely passes her artwork with a 68%.  She sends the girl off with her skeleton for Día de los Muertos, which the girl promptly trashes upon exiting the classroom.

“Goddamn bitch of an Art teacher,” she mutters, heading for her locker.