A NOTE TO READERS

A NOTE TO READERS:

I am placing 'Land of Earl Gray' under a hiatus status. I am sorry if I have disappointed anyone, but my hope is that we have not read too much at this point. Not too much to entice us beyond repair, anyway- and that was a lame attempt at a hyperbole. No, for now I am re-thinking anything that I may put into book form, because, to be perfectly honest, I am considering fantasy as the source of this work effort. I really would like to try my hand at fantasy. If we ever figure out how to post comments, feel free to send me your ideas. I love to be able to use ideas from others whose creative sparks always cause my own stuff to become explosive. Feel free to reach me on Facebook about any heavy thoughts. Until then, I hope to see all of you in some land of imagery and beauty ~ adieu!

Coffee Mom

Coffee Mom

A spoon and a cup,

And a loud tinker,

Right before light sheathes,

Fall over the room,

As the shades are drawn.

Honed by Iraq’s sun,

Well-browned, soft skin,

Shielding curvy hands,

Begin execution.

Morning tasks are starting.

You stir the coffee,

Then drain the cup,

The coffee beans recalling,

You to the desert.

The kitchen soon quiets,

As you leave the room.

When rapidly your heels click,

Through the area,

Forcefully the noise returns.

The shutters now closing,

The house, now, starts dying.

An empty cup and saucer rest by the sink.

We know you have gone to work.

Chapter 2       

              

            I am going to put down this journal entry for a moment. Why I recorded this entry remains to me a mystery. My dear locket. I don't even remember why I threw you out. I threw you out? My grandmother had bestowed that locket upon me for my tenth birthday. I will never forget that day. The sun had been up forever that day, and it put me in mind of a gold wheat field which stretched beyond existence, into some land that I could not see. Eternity perhaps.

                My whole family was outside. My sister, with her cherry colored bowties flopping, danced around the yard with her black boots beneath a dress dotted with cherries, the picture of pigtails with a lot of expression to them. Our Cheryl. Cheryl was a gem to the world. Everyone who knew Cheryl adored her.

                But I just can't say it. I can't connect dear Cheryl to this story, not without telling her. Cheryl doesn't live far away from me, and if I say anything about her, then I know she will find out. We are too closely bonded. Each week she visits. While I know that I am not the careless soul that would ever dream of placing these pages out for common eyes that will scandalously look at them, I would be the world's biggest fool to allow them to meet any eye except mine. These diaries are top secret documents. To share them would surely mean death.

                It is extremely difficult to make a cut into a piece of something that doesn't seem able to open up for you. Like coconuts. It is hard to believe that coconuts are for eating. People are the same way I guess. No one wants to be a good listener. Very few people have the ability to serve the function that someone in my position needs, that is anyone- except for my dear Cheryl. Cheryl, with her long dark hair twisted into braids, who never stopped wearing those braids when she came of age, who never married,  whose sweet, unmarked face sees everything as a child would see it. Cheryl with her long, shapely legs and her womanly features, this woman that in spite of being blessed with great beauty is, in essence only a girl. My dear Cheryl. How I love you.

                But you can have no connection with this story. I must leave you out of it.

                That locket was made of pure silver, but it was framed by elegant strips of gold that actually resembled tendrils more than strips on its outer edges. These little decorative moldings were placed around this piece that was shaped like a heart. I remember my grandmother's face when she gave it to me. I had been sitting in a cross-legged position on the couch, a book on my lap that I had left open in spite of the celebrations around me. When she placed it gently on the pages, I looked up at her and smiled slowly. My family busied themselves for a time in another section of our wood house, preparing as they were for the next part of the day's festivities. My grandmother moved the hand-knitted feather pillows aside while she took her seat next to me.

                She enveloped me with love, squeezing my hand tightly while whispering an explanation in my ear. I'll never forget the feel of her scented body beside me, or the words that she whispered to me after placing her hand over mine, the locket still buried underneath my palm.

                "This is for you. It's yours now. The locket was a family heirloom that my mother passed on to me. It's a secret legend that no one will ever be able to attain, for I myself do not know what is enclosed within the locket. The piece has no key, but for centuries this missing part has distinguished the item. It is rumored that the locket holds something that the family desperately would like to have." She left her words hanging over me. During that pause, a million things in my mind entered.

                "But, grandmother . . . isn't there - " She placed a finger upon my lips.

                "You keep it hidden. It would not surprise me any if whatever the secret is, you shall be the one to reveal it. But let's not think on it. Today is your day."

                A million years seem to have passed since that time . . . I no longer have the locket.

Journal Entry 6:

April 12

             "Please don't go," I whispered. I was looking down at a daisy, its petals a blinding white beneath the scorching heat, blending in with the white heat of the day. It hadn't wilted.

                My life was spinning. I did not want the daisy to die. I felt as though it was all that was left in this world that I could hold onto. No one mattered. There was nobody else who cared.

                I reached down and I picked the up daisy. Now, for certain it would die. I couldn't help it, though. I cradled the daisy close to me, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. A large, brown rabbit hopped across the yard. After loping in an arc it reached me at the end of its route. Positioned right in front of me. Its eyes were large and brown like its body. It sat looking at me for a moment, so long that it seemed nearly wistful.

                "Hi, rabbit," I whispered. I reached out a hand to pet it. That's when I realized the creature was only an illusion. Rabbits do not behave in this way. My illusion hopped away from me swiftly, although, I was right, it had been real for a moment.

                It wasn't easy. Nothing was easy, I realized. The rabbit symbolized that miracles, well, things that are at least strange, can occur, although they probably won't last. However, when you do receive the hint of a miracle, even if its just a slight part of one, you should not discard it. You should not throw what you have received away. The rabbit, when he came to stand before me and paid me so much attention, was in a way, a sign.

                I looked at the daisy hidden in my breast. Swiftly, I threw it away from me. It landed pitifully, sideways on the ground. I allowed a small cry to escape me. I pulled at my hair in frustration. As irritation coursed through my veins, I left my spot on the stoop. Wrenching the front door open, I entered the house.

                I saw nothing but death inside the house. Irreversible, useless waste. I began chucking everything into the trash. The blinds, the pictures on the wall, the plates, and knives . . . they all had to go.

                "Gone! Gone!"

                I wasn't in the mood to save anything. It all had to go. Suddenly there was a knock on my front door. I wrenched it open once again.

                "What?" I screamed at the intruder. Austin looked at me with his eyebrows raised.

                "Truly there is no reason for that."

                "I- I'm sorry," I sputtered. Truly, I want to kill you. "What are you doing here?" Austin stuck his hand out. I looked down at it.

                "What's that?" A shiny piece of silver glinted from out of his palm at me.

                "Your locket."

                "What?" Austin studied me for a moment. After a stretch of quiet, for I controlled the fires of my emotions in a curious instant, searching I suppose my tangled mind for a connection, Austin said,

                "I perhaps should have called you first. This obviously doesn't have any significance for you."

                "I'm sorry," I gasped. "I can't seem to make it out." I racked my brains treacherously. The boat of my mind was shifting through the tangled waters. My brains were composed of mud. My boat shifted through shallow mud-lands and pushed aside dead things in the way, but still I couldn't connect to the locket. Silently I turned away from him, without taking the locket. The thing had no significance for me, and I didn't want him here. "Go now. I don't want the locket." He looked down at the object in his hands, his brow creased very slightly. After a moment I exclaimed, vexed,

                "Oh, honestly!"

                I snatched the locket out of his hands and chucked it into the yard.

                "Now leave!" I screamed at him. His eyes were boring into me in a way that I couldn't stand. A faint mix of sadness and concern that he had hidden from me up till now. Shaking, I shut the door in his face. Slowly I meandered back to the couch.

READER NOTE

NOTE:

I have uploaded chapter one. Disregard the previous journal entries as chapters. They will simply be labeled as 'journal entries.' The first few serve as a prelude to the new chapter.

Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

            My name is Constance Billowing Snow. These are my diaries. I started writing them, when I was only nine. They seemed to take on a life of their own as I grew closer to them, eventually writing down every meager thought which came to me on their blotched pages. It became like an addiction to see my thoughts, to feel and hold what was going on in my life. All of the events I lived through were spiraling away from me too fast. No one on the outside of the little bubble I lived in had any idea how I felt. On the outside I was fine, beautiful in fact. To all observers I was growing into a strikingly lovely young woman. But inside of me was a dark glitch that no one saw. Tears, shadowed terrors, which I kept hidden away from the world, demons that no one saw, comprised my secret. Now I am forcing myself, with every bit of strength attainable, to read and to understand the pages which I think must have kept me sane, for as long as they could, in hopes that I can relieve myself of the knuckle-hard glitch that I have carried around with me, some kind of awful monster, silencing the talents that I might have shared, the personality that I've suppressed, any small facet that is of me from the world . . .  I do not even recognize myself.

               

                I don't seem to have the ability to introduce myself to others by answering two or three easy questions posed. What are my interests and hobbies? What do I like to do for fun? Someone might ask me who my best friends are, even, and I could not give a quick answer. These questions are so mundane, such routine things that one deals with rather than happily takes part in, at least to my mind. One does not stop to analyze them. Therefore, I make them more complicated, becoming their authority rather than whoever asks the questions, forcing them into something they were not originally created for. It entertains me. I always come up with ten people that potentially could be my best friends, rather than one person who is definitely my best friend. I do not eliminate any of the people who have been a part of my life, all with their unique gifts, who have in periodic intervals assisted me with one thing or another. One might have loaned me my favorite book at one point, another helped me out of a car wreck, perhaps, but yet is still not less valuable than the former friend. Another may have compelled me to reach out for love, and believe in others. When I was a child, I loved everybody. But after that day, the day I never want to describe, the day I never want to re-unlock its image, in order to thrust its unholy waters up to me, drenching me in their icy cold, those demon-fingers spreading, reaching out to me so that my head becomes clasped in those hands, squeezing-

                I could never reach out to another person, could never love another person. I wish more than anything that I could love someone once more. But I can't. I can never trust. Would that I had a friend who could make me do that.

                Constance Billowing. One could say my name in one breath, if they wished, for it isn't so complicated. Constance Billowing Snow. Yet the description would be much more complicated than the name. How would I describe myself to someone? How would I phrase that description? The girl who lost the flavor of life, who along the way forgot how food tasted because she no longer discern the differences between each particular staple? The girl who could no longer see colors, to whom patterned textures, which I used to run my fingers over with the most perfect sense for design imaginable, and could touch each texture piece for hours, in my own mind mapping out a way to make it better, so that people were offered a better one than the original . . . who had once been a famous designer for one of the most prestigious textile companies in New York City . . . who forfeited that job because, no matter how many textiles she produced, she did not appreciate them, or the hands that had put them on display for everyone . . .

                I am Constance Billowing Snow. And these are my New York Diaries. They are the only other element in this world that hold the same glitch I carry around with me, and maybe, just maybe they can help me to get rid of the glitch.

               

                I walked into the supermarket across the street from my apartment complex, two or so days ago. I bought a box of Earl Gray tea, an ingredient that always vanishes from my cupboards, despite the constant flow of cash I put out towards it. I removed the box from beneath my elbow, placing it on the conveyer belt. The man at the register gave me the total, then queried,

                "And your name, Ms.- ?"

                I  simply stared at him for a moment. Then, when I became aware of the action, proceeded to turn as white as a sheet. Quickly I snatched the bag with my tea in it, and raced out the door towards my car. I sat inside the vehicle for a time, with all the doors locked. I stared out of the window at the passerby. My name. I wasn't even able to answer that question for him. What in the world was the matter with me? Did I have some kind of a mental illness? Is that what I had done to myself?

               

                That night, I prepared to venture into a world that I hadn't entered ever since I'd placed my past life behind closed shutters. I made myself a cup of Earl Gray tea, first. Then I stared into the swirling dark liquid, while a tremor ran through me, one that served as a by-product for the transformation I was forcing myself to undergo. Slowly, with the air about me of a pale, washed-out zombie with flowing blond hair, I steered myself toward the beaten sofa. I'd opened a compartment in my mind that cleared the vagueness which had replaced my sharp wit for many months, the A+ mind which had helped to put my talents on the map of New York City. I pulled open a drawer with a key that was buried deeply beneath a pile of old papers. I then used it to open the smallest drawer that was in my apartment, and was part of an old, rickety nightstand which no one bothered with, that was small enough to be hid behind a large bureau. No one had used the item for many years, and my guess is that the apartment's former owners, not having the time to do anything else with it, tried to shield it. I pulled out a small black book.

                My diary entries messily revealed themselves to me. I spent the entire night trying to pull them together.  I have included the first five in this retelling of my life. Through strenuous effort, I will include the rest of them. My goal is to be able to answer simple questions about myself, once more, that is, as soon as I stop shaking.

Note to Readers

To anyone who is keeping up:

Because I am working on creating a clear storyline, I won't be updating as promptly as I have been doing during this time. Please check back in a few days. Thanks.

Land of Earl Gray

Journal Entry 5- After a Dive

Morning, I wrote:

                It's so early I don't feel well. My entire body is rebelling against the light creeping through the pane, in spite of the fervent protestations I am emitting. My physical body and the rest of my sense talents despise the work weaved by the sun's rays. The gift of sensing was not made for bright sun in the morning. I do not feel as though I work properly, in this moment. I should probably go back to bed. My jaw, hanging loosely from its axle, the slow moving machine that is my body . . . the dull buzzing in my brain that floats enters my mind from beyond the sunny pane, allowed entrance through that pane by its mercy, because the pane hates me . . . sickening with its blinding sun and oustide noises, pane which allows day to enter. Where is a blanket? Let me cover up the day which the pane bleeds.

Following events:

                "Constance, honey." My mother's voice, softened into a squeezed rag that's been rung out to a waterless piece that was not in current operation, drifted over to me like a foreign sound that did not belong to her. She appeared from behind the doorway where I'd been sitting wedged like cheese between a sandwish. The lines of consternation on her olive colored forehead were heavy signs of the reality that I'd been trying to escape. I could not find blankets for either the sun . . . nor my mother's enlongated expression. Everything blared the day itself, everything, everywhere I looked . . . all reality. It was all reality. Elongation hung from the robes in the bathroom where mother found me, which nearly dragged on the floor they were so lengthy. It hung from my mother and it hung from the day . . . I could not escape the longness. Please don't remind me of yesterday! Almost inadvertently, I buried my face within my elbows.

                "Constance, please come out for breakfast, sweetheart."

                "Not right now."

                "Constance . . . "

                "No, no, I don't want to."

                "But you- " She was bending close to me. Her black jacket crept up to my face, and I wanted to scream suddenly.

                "Mom- will you- get away from me please. Please just - " I was inundated in a terror such as I had never felt before. It was like bubble wrap and was squeezing me tightly, so tightly that I could not breathe. My heart was pounding against my chest. "Please! Please just- go away. Please! Please!" I started to shriek, and could feel any slight leftover trailing of control leave as the noise was rent from me. Pretty soon the noises developed into raw screams, totally out of my grasp, as if some monster was tearing apart my insides, creating this horror within me that I could not manage. This unabating fire swept through my physical body. It wanted out, and out, and out! "Mom, pleeeeease!"

                I was not aware of anything or anyone around me. I could see only blackness, a sleeve that enshrouded me. A couple of fleeting minnows. Arms and legs flailing as I tried to swim with them. Minnows. Take me away with you, I thought, trying to grasp at some sort of hope through this terrifying din.

                "Constance." A hard, rocky voice forced through all the racket making me stop. I gulped, twice.

                "Au-Austin. What are you doing?" My legs and knees were shaking. "Who let you in here? How did you get here?"

                "It's not important." He waved a hand. "You need to stop this wailing. You are disturbing the cats in the house. I just saw one flee to the basement with its tail between its legs" He smiled slightly.

                I let out a very strange laugh. Then I started crying.

                "Oh, Austin!" I had never been so glad to see anyone.

                "Shhh." He wrapped his arms loosely around me as I broke down. "Ohhh." I sobbed uncontrollably for an entire, robust minute in his arms. "I'm sor- I'm sor " I knew this wasn't proper. I was taking advantage of my friend. But my body was shivering with tremors, and I needed him to hold me still. "I'm sorry."

                "Don't worry. I'll wash my clothes if you let your nose run." I tried to laugh weakly.

                "I'm not sick."

                "Alright." He rubbed his left hand in light circles across my back as I lay pressed against him. I didn't say anything else. For five minutes, we sat in this unseemly position on the bathroom floor. I quieted eventually as my strength was sapped from me completely. I felt slightly drunk. I think I was falling asleep.

                "I think I'm falling asleep." He didn't say anything. I snuggled up against his chest and let him support my head. I was too weak to fight it. The world was snuffed again into blackness, but this time it was peaceful. Nothing like that awful lake. No minnows. I wanted to stay here forever. For an eternity it seemed, I didn't know anything else. The world was dead, and that was just how I wanted it.

               

                     Goodnight, journal.

Note to Readers

A NOTE TO READERS ABOUT INVITATIONS:

I have sent out invitations to be authors on this site. Obviously, this will provide people with priviledges they would not have if they were only readers. I have done this, in order to eliminate difficulties such as inability to access the site without a password, e-mail address, etc. This function will allow posting of comments and even posting of one's own work, if so desired. My only polite request that I have pertains to my own work. I'd appreciate it if everyone would abstain from tailoring anything that I have written. Thanks =)

Land of Earl Gray

Journal Entry 4- Plunge Into Blackness

 

Today I went to a carnival in East Lansing. I am so terrified of reiterating the occurrences of this day, that my pen seems to have come to a standstill. I look down at it. This silver utensil which should be helping me to put down my thoughts resembles a stalagmite more, because it will sit with endless patience in the same place. I’m having a hard time getting it to move.

Today in East Lansing, there was a carnival being held on Noname Boulevard. Well, something like that. I can’t really remember the name of the Boulevard. It sounded like ‘no name,’ for some reason. That is a bit ironic, because I wish that the boulevard and the entire location would have been nameless destinations that had sank into oblivion, for then I would not have gone to Noname Boulevard and I wouldn’t have had this day.

I have always been able to swim. I’ve always been an excellent swimmer! In school I’d swim several laps around the pool in just a few minutes, faster than anyone on the school swim team. Each time I jumped in the water, the coolness that I felt as my body sank in a deep, blissful submergence, seeped through all of my veins and the pores of my skin. This refreshing stimulus sent cold charges soaring, and dancing happily throughout my body in the natural arcs created by the human frame, that immediately invigorated me. When it came to swimming, I had always been able to just do it. And I keep asking myself, what possibly could have been different about today.

I had been bored with all of the somersaulting, slaphappy antics of the carnival. Therefore, my senses pulled me across the way towards a lake on the other side of where the melee of tents, screaming children, clowns, jugglers, unicycles, and other fantasies come to life, stubbornly persisted in making their racket. I wanted to get away from what I considered to be usurpation of human peace. Was that so terrible? Apparently some force must have thought so.

After tossing a brief aside to my mother so that she’d know I was leaving, I, being enchanted by the lake a few miles down the grassy stretch that seemed deserted, made towards it.

                Sparkling clear blue water rose towards me, offering me a dazzling blanket of pure sheen that glinted beneath the warm sun. As my feet met with the soft sand of the bank encircling the lake, I lost my balance due to the slight declination. I tripped. A second later I landed hard on my rear end, smacking into the sand. It didn’t bother me, though. I burrowed myself in the ground slightly, enjoying the warmth of the granulated element. I smiled, turning my face up towards the sun as I flipped my sandals off my feet so that I could wiggle my toes freely. Upon that moment, a slight shuffling sound behind me sharpened my senses so that I tuned into my surroundings. Making a move to turn and look to seek the out the source of the shuffling, my efforts were cut short. An arm had encircled my head.

                I tried to scream. My mouth was covered by a thick, black sleeve, so tightly that the fabric was actually pushing its way into my mouth, suffocating me. Dizziness enshrouded me, and I began to see white creeping into my peripheral vision.

                Terror coursing through me, I started making towards the water with a strength that was foreign to me, forcing my unseen captor along with me. Whoever it was obviously had to be a man, judging by the vice-like grip of the muscular arm holding me. Because we were only inches away from the shoreline though when he’d decided to make his play, fierce struggling was enough to bully him into the water with me. Even with my heart beating out of my chest, my instincts were leading me. I knew that if I was able to make this a lake battle, I would be able to out-swim this person.

                “Arrrrrgh!”

                I think something akin to children’s water fights must have been taking place. The very polished tips of my innate survival tools plunged into my soul, forcing me into flight mode. I fought vigorously to paddle away, my arms and legs splashing wildly, not stopping for an instant to look at my pursuer. Because of this, I still have no idea who this person was.

                 I could not swim though. I was swimming in a- normal fashion. Like someone- my arms and legs plowing through like the broken swirling blade of a jacked-up lawnmower. Something was wrong. They would not generate perfect straight lines of balance. My arms and legs were- trapped. He pinned them down so that I could not swim like a dolphin through the water, moving with the beautiful grace of power that had always been my unique trademark. That special gift was suppressed. I screamed.

                All I remember is a deep plunge downward. I can’t- get my pen to move. I went down, so deep, black fabric and strings of green seaweed, the tails of slipping minnows and my own slipping from them. I slipped further and further into an abyss of black fabric. The fabric became one with the world of dark blue. Pretty soon, I could not distinguish between the two.

                And then the light. I lay gasping, like a fish thrown out of the sea. People surrounded me. Jabbering. I was puking. I feel sick. I can’t write anymore.

Land of Earl Gray

Journal Entry 3- On Men and Women Relationships

 

      I have been thinking of a time when all of my contributions to the stream which my friends and I all know as thoughts of life broken down, were a little- well, disconnected, causing them to fall back, although some of my thoughts rushed before the others. They were discombobulated, not working in uniformity. The stream of life and all of its molecules, elements, its different factors, but human thought its driving force, was disturbed by this particular dynamic. My mind was not in perfect tandem, and I did not therefore contribute to the balance of life, but rather became a bane of this balance. The flow of human thought is comprised of various, unique charges of energy each individual contributes. These charges compliment each other in the manner that married couples create a balance of different attributes. The old adage, ‘opposites attract,’ may be somewhat true, if balancing of personalities is taken into consideration. The individual charge however, I think must have disturbed the balance of energies. My own streamed from a blown fuse, which ricocheted in many directions, and I wonder, now, in my calm musing, how my spinning head must have confused those around me.

“Constance.” I lifted my willowish blond hair, pulling it back out of my eyes, as my name was called. When I saw who it was that stood, just a little to the side, with a look slightly akin to puzzlement causing a small downturn on his mouth, and a trace of something in his dark eyes that couldn’t be analyzed, my heart lifted slightly.  This lack of heaviness did not touch my face. My eyes and my smile, remained somewhat guarded, as if I was afraid of pulling aside the dark shade that covered my spirit up. It went up from its place over my heart though, I couldn’t help it.

“How are you doing?” You jerk, I thought to myself silently. You haven’t talked to me in days.

“I’m fine, how are you?” I allowed the hard line of my mouth to carefully soften a bit. I twirled my pen around in my hand as I met his gaze, because for some odd reason I always engaged in a subconscious battle of what I should do with my hands when I spoke to him. My interests were always split between doing something on paper and talking. Should I feign working? I didn’t know how much to meter out in each area, but I know that I never wanted to give my full attention to him- but here I always fought a battle, because that’s where my full attention wanted to be.

“Good, good,” he said, stuffing his hands down his pockets in a deliberately negligent act. Ahh, so he’s nervous, I thought. “I just thought I’d stop by your office on my way back from the interview I just went to.” My curiosity was pricked. I raised my eyebrows.

“You went to an interview?” I could tell that he was trying to disguise a smile. He was either really pleased about the results of how it went, or he was really pleased to be telling me about it. I didn’t stop to guess at which one.

“Yeah, just down the street. At the UPS building. I’m up for a part-time position there.” He shrugged. “You know- it’s- just to give me a few extra dollars.” Then he flashed me a bright smile. “I can’t pay for all of this tough coursework.” I chuckled at his attempt at joshing with me. Joking in our conversation always made it easier. I didn’t feel so wrong-footed when I had wit at my disposal.

“No, I guess you can’t.” I couldn’t think of what to say to that. I hated the polite smile that seemed determined to cling to my face, and my brain’s inability to work properly. I felt sure that I was only fueling the long-standing notion, in this moment, that blonds are dumb. “But that’s fantastic. I mean it’s really great that you got an interview, at least. Any money in your pocket is better than not having anything. Do you think it went well?” He shrugged.

“I think it went pretty well. At least, I hope it did.” He frowned a bit, casting his eyes askew with this diverting thought.

“It probably did. I wouldn’t worry about it, anyway. I’m sure you have beautiful interviewing skills. They’ll love to have you. What is the position for? Packaging and handling?” He shrugged, yet again.

“Yeah, something like that. I think it’s a variety. Cashiering, handling and shipping . . . maybe driving, too. I’m not really sure.”

“Well I’m sure you did well.” He smiled, meeting my gaze. Without realizing it, I held it for a moment. “Thank you.” Really? Come on! All I did was say- oh, for pete’s sake! Why did he always have to complicate everything? Yet I was smiling.

“You’re welcome.” My voice rang out like a bright, shiny, silvery note rings out of an instrument. There was a pause between us. I noticed that he had kept the distance from me he’d held when he first walked into the office, and hadn’t taken a step closer to my desk from where he’d stopped. The slight trace of puzzlement, which he’d been trying to hide, was waging a war on his facial features. “I’ve got to get going. I’ll see you soon, though, okay?”

“Okay, I’ll see you soon. Goodbye Austin!”

“Bye Constance!”

With another cheerful wave, and a special smile he’d seemed to have put aside just for me, he was gone. I put my head down in my hands and groaned, letting the strands of near-white again fall over my face, hiding me from view. Why, oh why, did he have to complicate things so much? I was fine being an editor for the Sunday column in the Eccentric Weeklies. I did not need anyone walking into my life and stirring up an emotional boiler that emitted too much steam. I liked my life. Well, I wasn’t exactly living out my dream of being a famous writer in New York, with a cup of gray tea in my hands and a master of creative language, but I was getting there. Honestly, I didn’t need something like this distraction.

I have finished detailing one of several similar encounters of confusing energies. My friends are writers, like I, and we make it a point of ours to study the balances of life based upon flow of thought between people. Personally, I am of the opinion that men are primarily responsible for messing up the calm sense of peace that humans have the privilege of owning when everyone is outputting positive energy, and good quality thoughts towards others. I think my friends agree with me, but, then . . . hmm. That’s interesting. They are all women. I jest. I know men say the same about our gender. I’m sure that relationships between men and women light a fuse every now and then, and this is simply because both parties have met. Confusion is emitted from both. Ah, well. It’s interesting to think about the thought pool and its implications. But, to be honest, I don’t very much enjoy being in the middle of it . . . well, maybe I do.

Land of Earl Gray

Journal Entry 2- Pawns of Satin

Sometimes it seems like I go through life with a sigh upon my lips. The world rains and blows its wind my way, so that it touches the fibers binding my heart. Passerby scurrying to and fro down the streets behind me, vertical to me, and the one which horizontally sits before me . . . intersecting with the vertical street looks like an ant-house. Everyone is so busy, leading their own full lives, a straightforward march, a roll call of energizing business. None of them can stop and look anywhere but in a direct line, keeping their eyes, hearts as ants own them, ears, and movement directed where their mind is. No one stops to glance up, not even a furtive, quick one, for what would they do if unable to make the attempt at pressing their strength upon the purpose their lives seem to offer them . . . with their own selves at the crux of this purpose. The agenda they follow does not include anyone or any factored element except the unique role, one light for which they live, like a beacon that shines only to draw the loner to a destination. These lonely ants, one by one they hurry. . . scurrying together in a conglomeration of smashed cars, people, and screaming children, some who are wailing for their lost guardians, all running and hurrying, creating havoc in a pot that will eventually boil over with trauma. Eventually, when here is no reason to live other than personal survival and creation of utopia for oneself, the lid will blow from the pot.

Slowly the pot melts. God, His Glorious Wisdom was not distracted when he created Heaven. Hell meant to be the opposing magnet. Angels in Hell. Wrathful, holding long, scorching spatulas, they stir the pot of the Earth. As I look around at the fury, I wonder, why anyone has bothered to place philosophies of great men and women who wrote about equilibrium of good and evil forces in our textbooks. There’s no such example here on Earth, save for that of pure evil.

People are being stirred by Hell, not by Glory! Every person in this pot wallows like a broken log in the mess. Babies are born into it and never become seasoned to have good flavor. Every element in the pot is thrown into the pot with careless abandonment, each father, mother, friend, neighbor, slewed out of the hands of fire from Satan’s assistants. Satan’s pawns, brought together under the scarlet eyes of sly malice, are parts in a machine. Cogs of acquisitive monsters, robots programmed for the task of accomplishing one mission for the execution of the Devil, which the Devil disguises as personal gain, wealth, and tenure in a prestigious office. No goal other than this, and no compassion, like as though everyone were mechanized. They wind up, go through life, and greedily try to own life. They forget everyone else, abandon procreation, abandon motherhood, abandon baking cakes for their neighbors as a welcoming gesture, because, it does not fit into their schedule. Schedule. I hate that word.

I put my head in my hands and start to sob, while the echoing, slight, nearly delicate wind speaks to my sorrow. The element is so quiet, and plays upon the roaring madness of my heart, as though in a manner it seeks to soothe me with quiet. Yet the echo of it speaks of my loneliness as I watch the passerby of night fly by me with a rapidity from which I feel terribly detached. An empty, longing, aching gnaws upon the fibers of my heart, fibers being played with as though they were the strings of a harp, by the gusty wind.

I go through life sighing sometimes. Tonight I am sobbing, though. Where are you my dream? I’m so precariously far from it. I can’t think. My head some pressure cooker got hold of, smashing it.