Opposites Attract?

Had to write another Ruefle imitation style of prose. This is unedited with no corrections. Not sure if I'm very adapt at prose or not.

I was reading about Chemistry and the ideas of molecules and atoms and their reactive properties with certain elements, and I always have noticed that these ideas are similar to how people react in society, two women fighting over a sale rack item or two men arguing over politics would have the same reaction as red phosphorus being thrown into water, exploding in each other’s faces until they bounce right off of each other and go about their ways. But it’s interesting because they are more alike than they think they are, both negatively charged particles ricocheting off of each other and bouncing back again. Two people who get along just fine would be two positively charged particles, bouncing ideas or jokes off of each other, laughing and screaming in such fits of glee that they, yet again, bounce off the walls only to come crashing to the floor in a heap of tears and aching bellies. And then there are the positively charged particles that come into contact with the negatively charged particles, “opposites attract” they always say but in fact, when they “bond” together, they are stuck with each other to listen about the others interests with whom they don’t much  care about because they are opposites. They have nothing in common, it’s just the way things are and so they drift away wishing for a more exciting chemical reaction, watching the positives with the positives and the negatives with the negatives rushing at each other in such a flurry of passion, anger, and flushed, red faces.

The Grocery Store

Had to write this for my creative writing class. The assignment was to imitate the style of Mary Ruefle. There is a lot I don't like about it but we get to revise all of our pieces and turn them in again at a later date to share. I figured I would share this.

It is a Sunday morning and like all Sunday mornings it is when the grocery shopping must be done. If it were done on any other day, it would feel like a crime against nature. Yet, here I am at the grocery store at 11:30 like always walking with my cart to the front doors when I see a young teenage girl in a small plaid skirt, the kind you might imagine a school girl wearing, and here she is looking as though she might melt into a puddle, her face red, eyes a crazed and mottled shade of blue. I wonder why she is crying, and I observe her looking into the reflection of the glass windows, staring at legs, her thighs touch and I imagine that THIS must be what she is crying about because what else would a teenage girl have to cry about besides unrequited love? The obsessions that, we as humans, have with the female figure, the body almost seems separate from the mind, two distinct entities: one to satisfy others sexually, the other to remind you to not forget the milk at the grocery store. This same body that is whistled, hooted, and honked at, A body that is forever poked, prodded, and weighed like a laboratory rat, constantly at wrong for eating too much, eating too little, a million details that all point to this solitary girl in her plaid skirt on this rainy Sunday morning and says: Destroy yourself. I realized that I was witnessing this very girl, her finger hovering above her own self-destruct button, weighing the pros and cons of that decision; but who cares about pros and cons because the mind wants what the mind wants and nobody ever DARES ask the body what IT wants, but in the end, the body wins and you shut up and eat your damn Cheerios.

Arboreal

I'm sitting here listening to an old winter playlist of songs I used to listen to right before I moved (and when I got here). The Flashbulb and Explosions in the Sky kept my mind occupied as I drifted off into a nostalgic world in my head while driving; the roads in Missouri are endless it feels like. I remember not only having these two groups as my driving music but also as my writing and running music. Running in the crisp night air of winter with a full moon around a lake listening to this playlist was surreal in every way. I cannot seem to explain it. I may even have to write a poem about it.

To be honest, those first few months of living here were a dream in and of itself. They blended into each other, the pictures and lines merging into one another. Now as I think back on it, I see myself looking through this smeared greasy lens of self hate, homesickness, and resentment towards my husband. I missed smoking pot, dropping ecstasy and staying out to all hours of the night to silence the madness that was roaring inside my head, anything to escape what I was truly feeling. Which was way too much. Or nothing at all. I think sometimes I did these things to feel something. While at other times, if feeling too much, I had to spin my "Wheel of Fortune" of what destructive act I could inflict on myself to stop the spinning, stop the chaos.

This summer has probably been the shortest summer of my life. I did (almost) absolutely nothing because of the damned heat. I felt like I was crawling around in someone's hot mouth. Oh my that sounded dirty. Heh. But really, the summer months just kinda felt like one whole month of boring, lazy hell. I was the sin Sloth. Nothing aroused interest or pleasure in me except lazy days on the couch reading book after book losing myself in another world that was much more interesting and exciting than my own.

Too bad I'm (more than likely) going to be here another god damned 4 years.

I am Here and then I am Not.

I have been pondering this all day today and admittedly for the past couple weeks. Ever since I have moved to the "Great Midwest", I feel as though my creative drive or energy that propels me to write something AMAZING, has left me. In Maryland, my home environment, I was able to write the best of my work. Poems that have won me Editor's Choice Awards, poetry readings, and checks to help me pay for my school books. It was the first time I had ever been published and I was proud. I felt that if things kept up (and if I smoked more drugs) I would be cranking out more in no time.

However, since I've been here, the only thing I have been managing to work on is a "How To" guide to becoming a fucking Vegan. Please. Where is the creativity in that? I am sure I could make it creative but any willing editor would probably cut half of that shit out. Besides that, I feel that it isn't "me". I’m thinking that when I start my classes next week, I’ll be able to find that creative drive again and seize it, and refuse to let it go. Others could possibly read this and just stamp this off as a common case of writer’s block. I don’t believe in writer’s block. I believe in getting up off your ass (or in this case sitting on your ass) and getting some writing done. Write while your mind is wandering and I’m sure you’ll be able to fish something out.

Being able to crank out poems every week for classes or writing groups left me feeling high. Typing up my work in an attractive font, printing out copies, stapling and handing them out for others to read. Feeling that rush from reading my work to a silent but interested group, hunched forward, hands cradling heads in amusement and wonder. I felt especially proud when it was a poem that gave me chills such as my "Watercolor" piece. This I wrote on a slow morning at work when I worked at the pet store in a small shopping center. I liked mornings there, I was able to sit and just write whatever came to mind in a small journal I brought with me everyday.

And now I am out of things to say.