Nobody in this freaking town is showing Tuck Everlasting. Now, you might laugh and say "So what?" but let's think about this. It's the newest film from Disney... with an all-star cast... based on the beloved 1975 novel of the same name. Do you have any idea how much money the Goodrich could have made this weekend off that movie? They'd be the only place in Springfield playing it! Yet for some reason, they're still showing The Banger Sisters instead. They have Red Dragon in two out of their eight theaters! Signs has been there for three months! What is wrong with them?
Well, besides the obvious, I mean.
Anyway. Most irritating. I've half a mind to chew Mike out because of it, although that would most likely result in instantaneous firing. Not that that would be a bad thing. But I'd much rather quit that job myself than be fired from it. And the reasons just keep piling up...
Well. That kinda ruins my plans for the evening. Now I wanna do something interesting. Juice N' Java, anyone?
I think it's high time to post some more writing, so here's one I did in the throes of inspiration around 11:30 last night. It was done as an answer to a challenge on The Writer's Cafe. I had to write "the story behind the song," and I chose U2's Running to Stand Still.
She woke up that morning with one thought in her mind, and it would not leave her alone. For fifteen minutes she stared up at the ceiling, immobile, listening to the thought circle in her mind and repeat itself insistently. Finally, giving in, accepting it, she said it out loud. The words were meaningless in comparison with the thought itself, which was far more intense, far more demanding. She said them anyway: "Something has to change."
By the time she reached the subway, the rain had drenched her. The train shuddered forward and she found herself gazing at the blank faces of the other passengers. Were they as lost as she was? Did they all have the same bitter taste in their mouths? If they did, did they even know it?
She could feel the sky pressing down on her when she got off at her stop. The sheer faces of the buildings that lined the street were as confining as the walls of a prison cell. There was only one way out of the city, and she was too afraid to use it. Once, long ago, someone had shown her the way out, just before he left, too. She knew how to get to the secret stream, deep underground. But she'd never go.
There was a song that went with the thought, one that stuck to her like a tail. She was sure she'd never heard it before, and she found herself humming it.
Something had to change. The city was a trap, and it would not let her do what she had to do. She could pick any door, but it would not help. She could try anything--lie, beg, steal, run. She could run all she wanted, through the wet streets and the dark alleys; through the rain and the fury of the storm; she could run until her feet were tattered, until her legs gave out, but she would not go anywhere.
Current Thought: I hate getting to OTC too early...
Guess I might as well update and tell you what's been going on lately... My weekend was awesome. Highlights of Saturday include:
•Getting 73% accuracy at the quiz competition in St. Louis
•Riding back from St. Louis and listening to U2's Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses just as we crossed Wild Horse Creek. I love life's little coincidences.
•Seeing a billboard for "Molly's Amish Furniture... and FIREWORKS!" Anyone else see the irony?
•Eating dinner at Long John Silver's (my third fish sandwich for that day) with some of the first-year quizzers. Cool people, all.
•Sam's amazingly astoundingly awesome gig. Jil sang, Tim sang, even Samson sang, and when nobody was singing, there were some incredible jazz/blues/improv instrumentals going on. Wow. Wow, Sam. Wow.
Higlights of Sunday include:
•Skipping Bible study at Natalie's house to watch The Faculty instead. Jesus... guaranteed to jack you up.
•Borrowing some more of Natalie's CDs. I think I'm scratching the bottom of the barrel; the only one in the bunch that really interests me is Chopin's Nocturnes. Natalie needs some more U2 CDs.
So yeah, that just about brings us up to date... Beyond that, it's been homework and scholarship research. Turns out I'm eligable for the Horace Mann scholarship, since Mom and Dad are both teachers. That's up to $20,000. Wouldn't that be nice? Also entered a Calgon scholarship competition which amounted to sending them my personal details and two really tiny essays. Did all that while I should have been memorizing the 25-word essay we have to write for Spanish... and yes, that's 25 words in Spanish. So far, I've got "Español es muy practico." Four down, twenty-one to go.
Oooooookay... my $150 CD-MP3 player just stopped in the middle of So Cruel. Full battery charge... 180-second anti-skip activated... and it's not the first time it's done this. Most peculiar. Perhaps stopping and restarting will help. Thank God for the auto-resume memory feature.
This CD player still rocks, though. Take that, Laura. ;^)
Anyway. Gotta go write a one-page, double-spaced paper on the challenges and problems faced by my Art 110 team in making our video assignment. All I can think of is that two members of the team couldn't make it to filming on Saturday, including myself. Must go pull some more details out of... thin air (what did you think I'd say?) and make it sound plausible. Namar.
Current Music: Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, Tan Dun
Current Thought: Wanna cash my check... wanna cash my check...
The street outside the window was empty but for the lone girl, wrapped in a big black coat. Her hair, dyed red, was damp and covered by a shapeless hat. It wasn't particularly cold out, except for wherever she walked or stood. She cast no shadow under the streetlamps. She wasn't really there.
Sometime, decades ago perhaps, she had walked that street; that, or she had not yet and would not for decades to come. Or she never had and never would, and the only person who saw her had invented her out of boredom or fatigue or insanity.
Whatever she was or wasn't, she passed through the puddles of light on the wet street without a sound, and was soon beyond the range of the window, leaving no sign she had ever existed-- which, of course, she hadn't.
written 9/29/02
She hid in the bathroom stall. It was far enough from everything that the screams in her head became mere background noise, blending with the rush of water and the voices of the girls washing.
The walls were painted a pasty mauve, with a chrome handle and hook on the door. It was nice, for a school: no pointless messages etched into the paint, no stains on the stone tile floor. It was nice, yes, and rigid, like the rest of the building. It left no room for breathing, no room for imagination. She could no more visualize any sort of creature in that room than she could take out her own heart and continue to live. Nothing was welcome here save humans, and even they were mostly discouraged from staying longer than absolutely necessary. The place reeked of efficiency and air freshener.
She hated the school, three stories of classic brick architecture, where her parents dumped her every weekday morning with the assurance that she was getting an education that would prepare her for an expensive college and a profitable career. She hated the teachers, the students, the uniforms, and the way that everyone was just as smart and just as rich as everyone else. She hated the halls. The full-spectrum lights hurt her eyes and made the screaming louder. She wanted her old school back, but her parents wouldn't hear of it. They listened to the psychiatrist, who said the trauma was too much and she had to change schools.
So between classes, and sometimes during, she hid in the bathroom. It was far enough from everything that the screams in her head became mere background noise, and when the doors swung open and slammed shut, it almost drowned out the echo of the shot that had killed the only friends she ever had.
written 10/7/02
Been a while since I posted something fictional, so there you go-- a double-whammy of rather depressing prose. Namar.
