#creativeessay

[pattyfingersintheholywater]

The Sounds of Silence

He’ll always be your father, my mother often says. Through oxygen lines, or exhaustion brought on by another infusion. It’s difficult to argue with someone whose body is perpetually a battleground for biology.   When he left her, left us, left the house and the dogs, the three mortgages under both their names, it was quiet. He had waited until it was just the hem and haw of my mother’s machine, supplying her with fresh air. The canary-colored walls of the house stood unusually cheerful, pockmarked with family portraits and my father’s military achievements. I was the only child that had not moved out yet, and I hurried out the electric blue front door. My boyfriend and I were headed to see the snow in Julian, falling softly on the mountains. To smile at the melting.  

Be safe, my mother said. And hem and haw.

-

I don’t remember him much, anyway. When people bring up anecdotes of their fathers, of football games, camping trips, I recall much more macabre scenes. Almost sitcom in their absurdity. The first deep memory I can conjure was when he returned from Iraq, the first time. My mother was anxious, and we had rented a cheap motel in 29 Palms to collect him. I was glued to the television; the BTK serial killer had just been caught. And my father circled around the room in silence, handing out dollar gifts to us. And I wondered what made a murderer, and what made a hero.  

- When he retired from the military, my father had decided that we were going to live in our first real, non-doublewide home. In a suburb. With canary yellow walls, and an electric blue front door. He hadn’t been able to pin down a career because he was in the infantry in the military – meaning frontline, and no discernible skills that translate to civilian life. But that didn’t matter – my mother worked full-time for years and continued to work. At this point, she had collected a pacemaker, a “zipper” in the middle of her chest from a double-bypass, but had yet to be acquainted to the lullaby of the oxygen machine. Nothing tying her down, yet. No hem and haw. The only sound echoing in the living room was the constant sharp click of the loudly colored front door – the sound of leaving. The cost of a home we couldn’t afford.

-

When my father was upset with my sisters and me, we often wouldn’t know till days later. I’d come home from school, turn on the computer and find an email from him. I’d ask my sisters, did dad send you an email too? They’d nod, and confirm that they too received a lengthy email, often ripping our characters to pieces. I’d close the browser, turn around towards the empty living room, the bright yellow walls, and ask a muted what the fuck? And they didn’t have an answer.  

-

There’s something smothering about snow.

The way that sounds are enveloped in its cold, and stamped out. Julian was exceptionally cold the day he left. The clops of the carriage horses felt muffled, and the words of tourists seemed choked in the air. The way the town was holding its breath that day.  

-

We had just begun to watch the world around us melt when I received the call from my mother. She was gasping for air. He – he – he – left –me, a shriek so loud the snow couldn’t swallow it. I asked what? Not to her, not to anyone in particular, because I already knew the answer. I pleaded with her to breathe, to hem and to haw. And then click. She had hung up. It would be an understatement to tell you that I thought I had lost my mother in that moment. I knew that if she wasn’t dead, she had died anyway.   The hour-or-so crawling down that mountain, back to that loud blue door, felt like days. My boyfriend drove back, knuckles taut-white on the wheel, to the tune of my sharp, stuttering breaths and elongated groans.  

-

He had left a letter

And gone with a suffocating click of that fucking door, while my mother hem’d and haw’d the machine air upstairs.

The letter cried how he wasn’t in love with her anymore, and he was suffering from PTSD - something he’d take back-and-forth from us in the years to come when it was convenient for him. Blame, blame, blame, he wrote. The loudest letter I’ve ever read.  

[she-writes-things]

This isolation gave me time to reread some of my favorite books, books that were mostly given by family and friends. Just as expected, they were in good condition- exactly how I left them. The leaves are clean, with no folds, stain, or scribbles, except for the occasional dust that occupied the cover and outside pages while I was away. They could even pass as new just like the ones sold at bookstores, displayed on shelves waiting for someone to call them their own.

But this is not about how they have been neatly kept even after having them for years. I am here to introspect whether I am giving them the love they deserve.

For so long, I thought I always have to keep them at their “best”. I do not even let anyone borrow my books unless I am sure they will handle it properly. Even I was always more than careful whenever I read. But then again, is this how they should live? Shouldn’t the stories be made colorful by notes, stains, any other “memory” the pages are bound to keep?

Old books always bring me fascination because of the history attached to them. How the white pages have turned brown over the years, how some even fell prey to decay. I love the smell, how some words are starting to fade.

From childhood, I learned the habit of buying second-hand books from book sales. Some of the books have names on them, scribbles, remnants from another life, or a lifetime, maybe. It was always a happy feeling to keep someone else’s memory through the books we share. As we already know, books may be inanimate but the stories are not.

Going back to my wonder, shouldn’t books be able to live their nine lives or more? Shouldn’t they be passed on to as many people as possible? Shouldn't they be read until ruined? Shouldn’t books be stripped down until they are left naked and vulnerable to truly know what they are trying to say? Or isn’t that a bit of an overkill?

As I read another book, I am sure these questions will often cross my mind. But even with so much curiosity, I do not think I can fill the pages with my words or marks. I cannot even promise to pass them on, not yet. Instead, I will commit to memory all the stories they tell. Hoping that one day, I will be telling the world stories of my own. And from there, the cycle goes on.

After all, there is no handbook. In reading, love is valid in all of its forms. Wild, silent, plain, and simple, name it. We should all read and love the way we think we should. “To each, their own.”

June 6, 2020 4:00 AM

[yessamla]

RE:d

RE:d, red. the canvas is dripping with red.

red from love

red from loss

the red of a glowing hot iron

a brand upon my skin

the stain you seared upon my heart

how can I thank you?

what can I say?

you graced my life with a gentle touch

turned everything into golda

but that touch clenches into a tormenting grasp

for as much as you have given me

you also take away

a childhood spent together

days filled with laughing and learning

all taken for granted

time gone to waste

you left too soon

I spent so long at your bedside

keeping my vigil

but when I was away

you, with your cruel, cruel jokes

just got up and left me

left me for another home

after you were gone, I searched for you

I needed you

wanting you to somehow appear

but you were always just out of reach

life’s bitter unfairness

I was such a fool

a senseless human

loving something so mortal

putting so much of me into you

a single soul dwelling in two bodiesb

what it is to be human!

stuck in the past

muddling through the present

eyes set on a hazy future

a future not guaranteed

merely a rug to be pulled from under our feet

still, my life meant nothing without you

to others

merely a breeze passing by

but to me

you were as a hurricane

destroying everything in your path

I saw you in all things

I still see you

torturous taunting

never ceasing

no rest for the weary

relief came only through tears

waters of the floodc

for my soul to float upon

misery became me

and there was no escaping myself

in my despair I had found a new friend

but my grief was merely in your stead

as superficial as this life in which we invest so much

only to have these mortal things ripped from us

as thorns on a rose stabbing into our souls

I often still think of you

and wonder how life would be

would we have finished our schooling together?

we so frequently shared thoughts

conversations never to be had again

words I can no longer bear

how would my life be different?

we had the sweetest of friendships

your soul breathed energy

breathed life

into mine

the exhilaration of knowing

my eyes would once again gaze upon your sweet face

such satisfaction

the sweetness of stolen pearsd

I may never taste again

so here I sit

writing these words

a sermon that no one will heare

tears fill my well

ink splattered in vain

and somehow you are with me

I feel you beside me

quietly guiding my hand as I write

and the satisfaction creeps back in

RE:d, red. the canvas is dripping with redf.

red from loss

red from love

for though you take away

you have given me so much

and for that I will never forget you,

the color by which you lived

red, red.

My soul is dripping with red.

“RE:d” Revealed

The true emotional inspiration behind this poem came from the loss of my brother. I happened to be reading St. Augustine’s Confessions in one of my classes at the time and the passage about the death of his childhood friend struck me right to my core. It was as though he was writing exactly what I was feeling. Thus this poem was born and served as my “creative essay” for the class. One of my favorites I’ve ever written. The following was my written explanation of my poem to the professor if you are interested:

The inspiration for this poem came from the passage in which Saint Augustine recounts his reaction to the death of his childhood friend (Confessions IV.iv.9-IV.iv.12). As I was reading this passage, the way in which Augustine described his grieving struck me as very beautiful and heartfelt and relatable. I consequently elected to write this poem from his point of view in remembering his friend.

Being a heavy topic, I wanted to truly embody Augustine’s grieving process so I accentuated this poem being stream of consciousness, hence the minimal punctuation and heavy use of stanza division. Moreover, because the structure is so unorthodox, I wanted to note some aspects of my work that I people who read the poem tended to miss:

Perhaps the most important aspect is the organization of this poem. As he remembered his friend, Augustine jumped from emotion to emotion, traveling between anger, sadness, disbelief, and so on, and I really tried to capture that emotional chaos. I decided to utilize the title to insinuate the topic of the poem, but not openly. Though the choice of the color red was fairly random (other than it being a passionate color), the spelling of the title was very deliberate. “RE:” is the prefix email subjects when replying to a message, and “d” is the first letter of “death”. In tandem, they subtly imply that this poem is Augustine’s reply or reaction to the death of his childhood friend.

Throughout the rest of the poem are various references to other myths or stories, emphasizing the worth Augustine placed upon his friend and the depth of the grief Augustine felt. In referencing King Midasa, I wanted to accentuate the value Augustine placed on all that he shared with this friend—something as valuable as gold. Moreover, in the text, Augustine paraphrases Aristotle’s statement on friendsb, making the quote an obvious choice to include in this poem (qtd by Confessions IV.iv.11). On the more somber side, I allude to the Biblical story of the floodc in reference to how Augustine felt as though his grief was replacing his friend. In doing so, I was intended to hint at the vastness of Augustine’s sorrow. The flood was on a world-wide scale: the vastness and depth that is found in that story closely mirrors the extent of the grief that Augustine was feeling (Gen 7). He got such satisfaction out of that friendship, which I later parallel to the exhilaration and satisfaction he got when he and his friends stole pears from the orchard (Confessions II.v.9).

Finally, Augustine, in my poem, takes a moment to step back and consider why he is writing what he is writing. As I thought about how his thought process, my mind immediately jumped to the lyrics from The Beatles’ song “Eleanor Rigby”e: a sermon that no one will hear,” (Lennon–McCartney). The words seem apropos, as no amount of poems or songs could ever bring back the friend whom Augustine lost. Yet at the same time, Augustine seemed to take comfort in remembering the sweetness of his friendship, which leads to the alteration of the opening phrases in the last few stanzasf. Whereas the opening line is the same each time, the words “loss” and “love” are switched, as well as “take away” and “given”. Moreover, in the final repetition of the color red, the correct spelling is used, underscoring both the passion that tends to be associated with the color red as well as the closing of the poem: Augustine is finished “replying” to the death of his friend and now just wants to be left with the happy memories he has with this person.

[jhonmarc-mandane-blog]

Trip To Paradise

”The most beautiful things are not associated with money; they are memories and moments. If you don't celebrate those, they can pass you by.” Everyone has it’s own way to create memories. Either in good way or bad way, or through expensive or ordinary way. We got good memories from different things. We got good memories from friends, family by blood, family by heart, and love ones. I remember back then, it was summer vacation year 2016. My tita suddenly invited me to go with them, they are planning to have a two days and one night outing at Dinadiawan, Aurora, so with no dought I accepted her invitation. The night before we travel I packed already the things I will need. I am little bit excited because it will be the first time of mine to go there . I’m excited to see pleasing views. 5 am in the morning we started to travel from Santiago to Aurora.it took 12 hours of travel, there were time we need to stop to eat. We are not yet in our destination but we already saw a beautiful God’s creation. A healthy mountain, crystal clear river, maddela river that was wider than the normal river, and specially the Sierra Madre whos one of the famouse mountain in the Philippines. We also encountered an ethnic group which is the Itas. My eyes were sparkling and shinning like a gem, my feelings is an active volcano that any second may explode, and an unexplainable excitement, the momment I saw the natural beauty of the wide blue ocean and the white sand in the shore, I feel like millions of birds are singing and flying inside me, like I am no more myself, all of a sudden everything turns perfect. So right after we got a place to rest and fixed our things like what cheetah do we run fast as we can and play immediately to strong and big waves. The day spent well but the night came such amazing too. Listening to loud splash of waves hitting the shore, tasting the clean air, and entertain ourselves by hunting some animals that are more active at night such as crabs, we hunted two different colors of crab, some got a mixed color of orange and white some got blue and white. It really gives relaxation and makes you escape the cruel world even just for a while. On the other day, I heared that my titas are planning to go to the nearest falls from us, So my ears are flapping so hard like suddenly there were an aura came out in me. The water from the mountain falls wildly, the water was cold as an ice, and surroundings was full of trees. A perfect place to eliminate stress. It was a exhaustible experience but a priceless one. Whatever way we make good memories, through simple or fancy, as much as we are happy. Everyday we got new memories to cherish and another chapter of life to value. #CreativeEssay #CreativeWriting

[justinweingartnercomix]

Excited & honored to have my artwork featured on the Welcome Table Press website along with "Essaying the Body Electric Project". The organization's founder, Kim Dana Kupperman, @kimdana59 is a friend, an extremely talented & wonderful writer & the site features winning pieces focusing on the creative essay. Kim & I are also looking to commence collaboration on a graphic novel very soon. Follow the link -------> http://www.welcometablepress.org/essaying-the-body-electric/ #art #artwork #instaart #artgram #nycartist #nycart #nyartist #nyart #brooklynart #brooklynartist #illustrator #illustration #strangeart #weirdart #biography #artistbio #welcometablepress #writing #essays #creativeessay #justinweingartnerdesign