I Can't

Current mood (but at least it's a snow day and I get to revel in poetry and books and art and naps which is just what my soul needed today):

I Can’t

I can't do it anymore.

I can't lie to you and tell you that tests don't matter when

Everything we say and do depends on the score

And we track all the data

And every moment of your life is a test.

You don't get a participation trophy

And people are always watching but rarely helping

And you don't get unlimited time to reach your dreams

And a little stress is good for you

And what you do with the time limit matters

And pretending that it doesn't or that the world will just let you be

Is not what I want for you, either.

I can't have visions of a better world

And daydreams of the future with you and

Hope

That you bring every day with your

Pebbles in your pockets and your

Made-up words,

Your million wonderful questions

And your view of the world as so black and white

But not the people in it...

I can't let myself soar with you because

I am a grown-up

And I know

That most of those longings will never be

And I wonder if it's fair to you to pretend that they will

If we’ll both just be disappointed,

When I'm holding on to the balloons right along with you

But my feet still touch the ground

And I wonder how long I can keep the air pulling upward for you, just for you.

I can't tell you to be brave

But then run and hide from the world when the light goes out

I want you to feel empowered

But if he has a gun then go behind the bookshelf and be very quiet and still

In the dark and don’t cry,

Make sure you stay inside

Where it's safe.

Don't be a bystander,

And stand up to bullies

And make your strong voice echo from the mountaintops when you're a grown-up

And please be powerful and beautiful and smart and good as a grown-up,

Especially good,

But don't let the monsters come and eat you before you get there,

So for now let's just keep this between us

And be a little scared.

Wafraid

I started a creative writing club this year for motivated and talented young writers at my school. They're working weekly on novels, plays, and books of poetry to self-publish in April. I believe in practicing what I preach, in modeling, and in being a lifelong learner, never asking of my students anything I am unwilling to do myself. While I don't have the time to write a novel right now, I do occasionally feel big feelings that regular words just don't express enough, and I feel the urge to write down some poetic(ish) thoughts, so I figured, why not make a book of (rough, unedited, journal-like) poems to self-publish in April alongside the kids? I have three students who are my "editors" and who ask questions/give me feedback. Sometimes these poems can be quite personal and misunderstood by anyone else who reads them, like this one:

On Souls and Soulmates

(a poem for my beloved Paul on the third anniversary of his passing)

The ocean of memory, it ebbs and flows

And we zoom through space

And cells die and are reborn

And my heart keeps pumping

And I learn things about quarks and photons

And shadows

And the whole universe is singing its motion

Yet

You remain fixed in time and space and are impossible,

Impassable.

Ever a guide (though I am constantly

Lost)

I wander in the wilderness, maybe for forty years but I sure hope

Not (sorry).

I blew you three kisses as I left the garden, and

Three times “I love you” was engraved in rings, and

Three times the earth is moved around the sun.

Three times, so…

I guess you really mean it.

***

People reading that on Facebook at the time thought I was paying such a kind tribute to him, but they failed to see the depth of sadness and longing and anger and finality and giving-up-ness I really meant in it all. (That is my gift, I suppose...to wrap the brokenness up in smiley-faced wrapping paper with yellow bows and try to really mean it.)

However, sometimes, the words are QUITE easy to understand and are really just direct and simply put out there into the universe, like this one I absolutely needed to write tonight in the midst of overwhelming emotion over underwhelming and ordinary things:

Wafraid

I feel afraid about 97.2% of the time.

Not terrified, out of my wits, or shaking, but

(according to the thesaurus):

Worried.

Anxious.

Fearful.

Reluctant.

Alarmed.

Intimidated.

Disinclined.

So I guess I’m really “WAFRAID.”

I’m wafraid that words will fail me (though you’d think I’d be used to it by now).

I’m wafraid that I’ve been wrong all along about everything.

I’m wafraid that my best isn’t good enough

In labor,

In leisure,

In likings,

In love,

In life,

In life beyond life.

I’m wafraid that I’m leading others astray, however unintentional the wandering.

I’m wafraid that I’m unwantable and un-stay-put-able.

I’m wafraid that all my broken pieces can’t be put right again, even with gold.

I’m wafraid that I’m getting what I deserve.

I’m wafraid that someone will see...

Me.

Through me.

Past me.

Me as me was.

Me as me wants to be but never will.

Me looking at myself instead of Someone.

I’m wafraid that I’m actually magnificent light.

I’m wafraid that I’ll never learn how to turn it on.

I’m wafraid that that it might burn out too quickly.

I’m wafraid of the power of explosions.

I’m wafraid of a black hole.

I’m wafraid of feeling.

I’m wafraid of a heart past feeling.

I’m wafraid of answers I won’t accept, so I just stopped asking the questions.

I’m afraid that I’m afraid that I’m wafraid.

***

(Sometimes I write happy things, too. :) Stay tuned for more random insights into my soul in the months to come!

*DISCLAIMER: I do not claim to be a great poet, or even a good poet, or even really a poet at all. That's why my book is entitled "Waxing Poetic(ish)". But it's good for me as a means of coping with life, or at least a nice distraction from it, so I'll probably continue for at least a little while longer. Please judge it kindly. I'm wafraid of you, too. :)

6-Word Memoirs and BOOK GIVEAWAY!

So, last week I read this book called Not Quite What I Was Planning.  It's a really cool project from like half a decade ago that I just recently found out about, and it's fascinating to me--as an amateur writer (though I haven't visited that love in YEARS), a teacher, and a person.  Basically, the idea was for people to submit their life stories in exactly six words--no more, no less.  And someone compiled it all into a book.  There are famous contributers, like Dr. Jane Goodall, and there are mostly ordinary, everyday people like you and me.  As the introduction states, "it's a thousand little windows into humanity," which I find very worth the read.  Even when some are stupid.  :)

In real life I'm a quiet person.  Sometimes shy, but mostly just quiet.  I'm a listener.  I'm a thinker.  I mostly like that about me.  But when I start writing, I find I have a lot to say.  Being concise is NOT my thing.  So writing a 6-word memoir would be a challenge for me.  But even MORE challenging is the idea of committing to one.  As someone in the introduction pointed out, "Whole lifetimes happen in people's lives every day."  Things change so quickly inside and all around us, and I can't imagine that what I write today will be the same as what I would write tomorrow. 

The person that shared this book with me mentioned that her family read it together (they're all older, of course), and in their discussions her father said his memoir would be, "I said my prayers every day."  I thought that was sweet.  I don't know if it's completely true of me, at least enough to define my life...but how cool!

I'm still thinking about mine.  But here are a few from the beginning of the book that resonate with me, for whatever reason:

"Made a mess.  Cleaned it up."  ~Amy Anderson
"Taking a lifetime to grow up."  ~Miron Iliescu
"Danced in Fields of Infinite Possibilities." ~Deepak Chopra
"I am trying, in every regard." ~Lionel Shriver
"I thought I was someone else."  ~Tysa Goodrich
"I was born some assembly required."  ~Eric Jordan
"Blogging is easy.  Writing is hard."  ~Jennifer Shreve
"Memory was my drug of choice."  ~Pea Hicks
"Can my words have footnotes, please?"  ~Amy Harbottle
"I colored outside of the lines."  ~Jacob Thomas

I won't share too many of these with you, BECAUSE I'M GOING TO SHARE THE WHOLE BOOK INSTEAD!

I don't do giveaways often on my blog because, frankly, I don't see the need much.  I do this blog for ME, and think it's just a lovely bonus that someone else might find me inspiring or interesting enough to follow.  But I don't see how I can share this with you and NOT offer to send one of you this book!  SO...all you have to do is leave a comment with YOUR 6-word memoir by May 15 (my anniversary!).  You're welcome to leave as many as you'd like, but each person will only be entered once, so you might as well take the time to make it your BEST...unless you're indecisive like me and need several.  :)  Every person who comments will get entered into a drawing and on the 15th I will literally pick a name out of one of my many awesome hats to find a winner!  The winner will receive not one, but TWO books: Not Quite What I Was Planning, AND It All Changed in an Instant, the sequel!  :)  I will also commit to a 6-word-memoir of my own then and share it with all of you. 

Ready?  Set?  WRITE!

We All Must Do Our Part

This is the children's book I "published" as part of a graduate student's research on the impact of literature on science education in elementary classrooms in Provo.  I got lucky to be picked as an "author," as the whole thing was a lottery.  The whole process was really cool--I had to pick a science content/standard that the other 10 people weren't covering in THEIR books (I wound up with recycling), research and include at least 5 facts and at least 2 teaching applications, get my research approved by a faculty member, write and sketch the concept of the book (I'm still not sure where my other teaching application ended up...it's not in the file), then get paired up with an illustrator from the art department.  Going through the process and seeing the final result kinda reminds me of the time I recorded an original song in a recording studio--it's not that the final product is all great or anything, but I still feel blessed to have had that experience, because it's just something that not everyone gets to do.  I know a little more now about writing for someone other than myself, and even though my tastes AND understanding of how children think and learn have changed tremendously since then (this was Fall of 2003!), I'm still proud of it.  I'm even prouder because of the 10 or 15 people who went through this, mine was the one that the grad student chose to present at her presentations.  I must have done SOMETHING right.  ;)  Anywho, here it is, and feel free to use it!  (If you want the pdf files, just email me at pcfernandez515@yahoo.com and I can get the larger files to you.)

A Day in the Life of a Common Housewife

A Day in the Life of a Common Housewife

by Celeste Fernandez

It begins with a list of the many to-dos
For each moment of the day that I don’t want to lose,
Spending moments with heaven just after waking,
Then packing hubby’s lunch and doing some baking,
Dishes, laundry, sweeping and mopping,
Planning out meals and then going out shopping,
Gardening, daydreaming, and if I’m real lucky, napping
Then improving my talents, like music and scrapping…
Paying the bills and walking the dog,
Redesigning a room, catching up on the blog,
Freaking out over budget and looking for work,
Spending time with loved ones so I don’t go berserk,
Yearning for children with each child that I see,
Then getting distracted (oh, you know me!)…
Squeezing in exercise when I’m feeling good…
(Which, admittedly, isn't as oft as I should).
This is but a glimpse into my everyday…
But would I really have it any other way?

(Okay, that last line may or may not be true…I can’t decide.) :)

Fanfic

Fanfic [fan-fik]: noun: "fiction written by fans of a TV series, movie, etc., using existing characters and situations to develop new plots."

My love for fanfic came about as a young teenager, in the wake of Touched by an Angel episodes and my parents' divorce. I used it as a self-therapy of sorts. I could create people who had problems far worse than mine, then use the "easy fix" formula of the show to have the simple words "God loves you" make everything all right for everyone. There was always a tease of romance in everything I wrote. And always the dove flying somewhere nearby to remind us of God's constant presence.

Fanfic is a beautiful thing because you don't have to do any of the hard work. The characters already have a history, and if you're writing it it means YOU'VE got a history with them. There are personalities, relationships, settings, and formulas already in place, and your only challenge is to come up with new numbers to crunch into that formula...and solve it, of course. While you have to battle the hundreds or thousands of fans who are crazy enough to follow the show so closely that they point out every discrepancy between your timeline and theirs, or your characterization versus their history with the same characters, it's still easy writing, light writing, like a salad with a light vinaigrette on a summer evening.

Then there's real writing. The steak-and-potatoes stuff. And everything's made from scratch. I have done very little of this kind of writing in the last decade, and what little I have done has been short (poetry) or I have killed it (because it was awful). School, family drama, illness, marriage, and school again, compounded with that darned companion Writer's Block, have pushed this out of my world for a while.

No more! While I may never be published or heralded as anything other than ordinary, writing is a passion that I have neglected for too long. I ache for the days of my kindergarten masterpiece, "The grl hoo at a apul" (The girl who ate an apple, for those of you non-teachers out there not used to deciphering children's spelling!).

This book was incredibly amazing. It was written boldly in fuschia marker, the pages went from right to left, I taped the binding with masking tape, and almost no words were spelled correctly. The story centers around our heroine, "the grl," who ate grapes morning, noon, and night and had lots of clothes in her drawers. She eats an apple and decides that she can eat those, too...so she eats apples AND grapes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Amazing tension and dramatic flair, no? :) And yet, I was ridiculously proud of this, my first story. I read it over and over. I made a library card slot for all the people I was sure would want to read my book. I had confidence in my abilities and I loved, loved, LOVED the whole process of imagining, creating, and sharing a story in my own words and by my own hands. Maybe that book (which I still have in my memory box, if anyone ever wants to enjoy it with me) will never win me a Caldecott or Newberry award, but it continually serves as a reminder of the childlike passion we should have for the things we love--and it makes me wonder what has happened in the twenty-two years since then to strip me of my confidence as a writer and as a person. I want to rid myself of the fanfic mentality--I want to be my OWN fan!

Today's challenge: Go grab a piece of paper, a hideous marker, and some masking tape, and see what you can make of it!

Breaking Up is Hard to Do...

So, I started a facebook writing club, and one of the prompts we could respond to recently was "Write a breakup letter with writer's block"...so here is what I wrote! It's ridden with cliches, but that seemed fitting under the circumstances...enjoy!


Dearest Writer’s Block,

We need to talk. We’ve been together quite some time, haven’t we—I think nearly seven years now! You’ve been there through it all, through the good, the bad, and the ugly. We’ve become so well-acquainted with one another that sometimes it scares me.

You are the only constant companion I think I have had in all of those seven years. The truth is, you’re “marriage” material, and I know that if we were to stay together, it will be a long-term relationship. I’m just not sure I’m ready to commit to you for the long haul.

The sad truth is, dearest, I lied to you. I never really WANTED you in my life. Who you are is killing who I am. I can’t keep up this charade anymore! I don’t want to hide from the world—and stringing you along would be utterly unfair to you and to me.

It’s not you, it’s me. You are a constant-- you know me so intimately that in my times of greatest joy, sorrow, or inspiration you’ve inevitably come around. I never really appreciated what you did for me. I know that there is someone out there who can appreciate what you have to offer her. I, however, need to sow my wild oats—I cannot keep up the pretenses any longer. I think we’d be better off as friends. No, not even that—I think we need a clean break, a fresh start, a new beginning. Don’t call, love. Don’t write. It will only make things harder for the both of us.

I’m sure that, someday, you will see where I am coming from, and perhaps you’ll even thank me. I think this breakup will make us both stronger. I will forever treasure the time we spent together, but in the end it was all a fairy tale, and we need to go our separate ways and start living reality again. I’d like to think that I just need some time, but the truth is I’ve got this fluttering in my chest when Inspiration comes around, and I just have to see what wonders we could create together. I do wish you the best, in everything. Please, don’t cry for me. There will always be a piece of you that is with me, every day.


Gratefully,
Celeste

The Mom Book

I've decided to start a new book, which I am entitling "The Mom Book." My thoughts lately have been turned to motherhood, particularly in the form of memories of my mom when I was little. There are so few memories with her in them. We never got along. We were too much alike, and too independent, to have the other involved. And there were too many secrets we were both afraid of exposing...her son that she had to give away, my deepest fears about myself. But she was a wonderful mother. The older I get, the more I realize how blessed I was to have the mother I had, to have the memories and the growing pains and the experiences I've had, and I've learned that motherhood, like any part of life, is a combination of learning from the past and living in the present. I'm sure the future is mixed in there somewhere, but I choose to ignore it. I dream enough as it is. :)

So here is the introduction to my lifetime journal/novel, The Mom Book. I will probably be posting several of my thoughts over the years at random on this blog wall, and many more thoughts will be recorded in due time on the wonderful technology I'm cradling in my lap. My brainchild is my only child at present. But we all have so many more stories and wisdoms and dreams to share than any of us have time to tell of, so if the stories and dreams and wisdoms seem random and disconnected at times, understand that it is because I am trying to catch with my bare hands a few grains of sand in a strong undercurrent that has carved the shape of an entire lifetime. Understand, too, that this book is really written just for me. Your mom book will be just as different as we are.

INTRODUCTION

What on earth is a mom book? Well, think back to your own mother. All those years of kindness, sacrifice, love, exasperation, wishing, tears, play, and work—and how many times did she throw her hands up in the air and exclaim how she wished that even just one of you came with an instruction manual? Well, this is for your mom, and her mom, and every mother that has ever lived. But most importantly, it is for you. It is the instruction manual to end all instruction manuals, complete with personal anecdotes, quotations, goal-setting, brilliant ideas, and of course flops, foibles, and mistakes of so many moms of yesteryear. It is the roadmap to motherhood as the Wonder Woman that you already are, and the slap-in-the-face or the chill-pill that you so desperately need when you demand perfection now, now, now! It is a gentle, and sometimes not-so-gentle, reminder that life is made up of big and small moments that only come around once in a lifetime. But if you do it right, once is enough.

Writing Club 3/11/09--If Walls Could Talk

It’s a dark and stormy night, and the Darland sisters have just returned from a WalMart Run for pudding, chips and salsa, and other wonderful yummy goodnesses. Celeste has bought yet another picture frame, not really knowing yet what she will put inside, but she decides to put it up anyway. In the aftermath of a particularly bad (and oh-so-good) thunder clash, the Darland girls suddenly get the eerie feeling that they are not alone, that even the walls have eyes and ears…

MYSTERIOUS VOICE: “Ow!”
CELESTE: “Did you say something, Charissa?”
CHARISSA: “No, I thought you said ‘ow’ because you hit your thumb with that hammer.”
CELESTE: “No, I just hammered. Strange.”
CHARISSA: “Maybe that flash of lightning hit something outside, and it cried out…in…pain…”
CELESTE: “Yeah…okay…” (Shrugs shoulders and continues hammering.)
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: “OW! STOP THAT!”
CELESTE: (Jumps back from the wall.) “Umm…Charissa?”
CHARISSA: (Joining Celeste) “No, that was definitely NOT me.”
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: “Of course it wasn’t you. It was me.”
CELESTE: “And you are…”
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: “Don’t you recognize me? We’ve known each other for so very long.”
CELESTE: “Um….exactly how long?”
CHARISSA: (Whispering) “I think that voice is coming from behind that wall.”
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: “I AM the wall!”
CHARISSA & CELESTE: “What? Wait, what?”
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: “I said, I AM the wall!”
CELESTE: “You’re on the ball?”
CHARISSA: “You jam the mall?”
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: “No, no, no, I AM the wall! W-A-L-L. Wall.”
CELESTE: “Well, wall, this is awkward.”
CHARISSA: “And uncomfortable.”
CELESTE: “That’s repetitive.”
CHARISSA: “And redundant.”
CELESTE: “That’s repetitive.”
CHARISSA: “And redundant.”
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: “STOP it already! I am the WALL, and I want you to stop poking holes in my side! It hurts and makes me feel icky inside.”1
CELESTE: (Putting down the hammer) “Oh, well, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t know.”
CHARISSA: “We’ve never talked to a wall before.”
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: “That’s a lie.”
CHARISSA: “Excuse me?”
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: “That’s a lie. You’ve talked to walls before.”
CELESTE: “Ha! You talk to walls?”
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: “No, you do.”
CELESTE: “SHHHHH! You don’t know anything…”
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: “Oh, yes, I do. In fact, I know everything.”
CHARISSA: “Walls don’t have brains, how do they know anything?”
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: “Lots of people don’t have any brains, either, but they still claim to know stuff.”
CELESTE: “But they do have brains.”
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: “But not really.”
CHARISSA: “And those people don’t know anything. So why are you comparing yourself to them?”
CELESTE: “Your analogy is breaking down fast, Mr. Wall.”
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: “Nevermind that. Anyway, I do know everything, at least everything that goes on on my insides. And why do you assume I’m a male?”
CELESTE: “You sound like a male.”
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: “Maybe I have a cold.”
CHARISSA: “It IS a little chilly in here.”
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: “No, I said I HAVE a cold, not that I AM cold.”
CELESTE: “You don’t have a body, so how can you get sick?”
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: “Lots of people don’t have a body, but they still claim to get sick.”
CELESTE & CHARISSA: (Pause.) “That makes no sense.”
CHARISSA: “I think we got a weird wall.”
CELESTE: “I think you’re right, little sister.”
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: “No, no! I’m not weird. I’m just…a little square.”
CHARISSA: “Now you’re making jokes like my dad.”
SETH: (from far, far away) “YOU CAN NEVER REPLACE MY FATHER!”
CELESTE: “Wow. That was weird.”
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: “You are all a little off. But highly entertaining. But very frustrating.”
CHARISSA: “YOU ARE A MORE OF A ONE!”
CELESTE: (To Charissa) “I’m going to keep hammering. This wall isn’t worth talking to.”

Writing Club--Another Muse

The week's prompts were varied by individual...basically, we each wrote down a story idea and then drew them from a hat, allotting 30 minutes to write. Here's my prompt and story:

“You wake up in an unfamiliar environment and everyone’s telling you you’re someone else, with a completely different life.” ~Charissa


I knew I shouldn’t have eaten that seventh burrito before I went to sleep last night, but my cravings left me with little choice. I must be having another nightmare. Why else would these strange people be looking at me so quizzically and calling me Isaac?

“Isaac, for heaven’s sakes, are you feeling all right?” some strange rotund woman with a mole on her left cheek asks me with a glint of worry in her eyes. I wince at the throbbing in my head only a moment, looking around the room that smells like burnt popcorn. This woman and two twin boys that look vaguely familiar are staring down at me as though I were an alien abducted for their own purposes, to be dissected and studied. One of the twins, the shirtless one, nudges the other playfully.

“Isaac’s toasted!” he says, half-mocking, half-reverently.

Toasted? I don’t think so. But Isaac? Who’s that?

“Joey, go put your shirt on and get your books for school, you’re going to be late,” the woman—I can only assume it is their mother—says with a look that speaks volumes. She points to the mute one standing behind him. “You too, mister.”

“But ma!” Joey exclaims (aha! It IS his mother!). “It ain’t fair, how come Isaac’s the one who’s plastered and I’M the one always getting yelled at?” Joey throws his lanky arms up in the air in exasperation, while his twin just rolls his eyes.

The mother fairly spits out her words in a hiss, “We’ll talk about this later, boys. GO!”

Amazingly, the two twin boys shrug their shoulders, kiss her on the cheek, and rumble down the stairs. Stairs? We don’t have stairs here…

I clear my throat awkwardly, which this strange woman mistakes for a reproving cough and the next thing I know she’s slapping me across the face. “Isaac William Bronston, how DARE you bring your fiery potions and hangovers into this house! MY house! And with the boys here to see it! Oh, if your father weren’t going to tan your hide three times over, I’d do it myself!”

Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa. Tan MY hide? Was this crazy psychopath who smells like ham and wood talking to ME?

“I’m…sorry?” I offer stupidly, still rubbing the cobwebs of sleep from my mind.

“Sorry! Sorry? You don’t know what sorry IS yet, mister! But you will!”

Before she can raise her hand to strike me, I instinctively roll both arms in front of my face. “Who the heck is Isaac?” I manage to ask. By the way her face turns from tomato-red to deathly pale, I’m sure it’s the wrong question. But, slowly, she manages to breathe again and she lowers her hand, so maybe it was the right question after all.

“Isaac?” she asks me, drilling her eyes into mine like she was looking for a priceless gift she’d accidentally tossed away.

“Isaac…who?” I venture again.

“You, son.” Her voice is a raspy whisper, and even though I don’t know her from Eve, I can tell she’s going to start crying soon.

“I-I-I’m not Isaac!” I stammer, more panic lacing my voice than I intended. I struggle to sit up, the hardness of my muscles and the sudden wave of nausea that hits me throwing me for a loop. My voice, I notice, is remarkably deeper than when I went to sleep, but even so it rises with every syllable. “I—I’m Sophia! Sophia GRACE!”

Her eyes narrow at me, the love and worry gone, wrath slinking into its place. “Isaac, what are you ON? Who is this Sophia, is she…is she the reason…”

I blush at the very implication. “I’m NOT ISAAC, and I’m NOT ON anything!” Fully upright now, my eyes scour the room for any OUNCE of normalcy, a familiar book on a shelf, my little sister’s medications lining her desk, my poster of Johnny Depp, ANYTHING, but the place may as well be the moon for all the familiarity I’m finding here.

“I told you, lady, I’m NOT Isaac, I’m Sophia Grace, and if we’re going to keep having this strange conversation I really have to have a cup of coffee.” My calmness and my demanding of beverages at such a time surprises even me, even if this is a dream.

“Okay,” she agrees all-too-easily. “But, mark my words, mister, five minutes of coffee haven, and then we’re talking.”

I roll my eyes, thinking how like the mute twin I must look to her, and smile ruefully. “Whatever you say, ma’am. Now, coffee?”

Minutes pass by in silent agony as the java settles in and the panic I felt earlier starts to rise again. I’m a fifteen-year-old girl, why was I sleeping in a huge bed that belonged to someone named Isaac? Even worse, why did everyone insist on thinking I WAS Isaac? This just isn’t making any sense. I went to sleep like any other night (well, almost…I DID overeat…again…). I woke up only twice, which was no small feat for me. Once when Josie was into another coughing fit, and once when I knocked my shadowbox over onto my head…

My HEAD!

I hit my head, and I woke up a…man? How did that happen? And if I am Isaac, who is me?

Character Interviews

I was nosing around one of my favorite blogs for creative writers, pymprompts.blogspot.com, when I stumbled upon an idea that I tweaked and thought I'd share with everyone. The idea is basically this: before you start a story, or if you're stuck on what to do next, pull away for a bit and examine your main character(s) in-depth. Interview them with these questions, and any others you can think of that might be pertinent, and you might find yourself knowing where to lead them next. If not, you'll at least get to know them better, which is always important for a writer if you want to write well. :) If any of my fellow-writers comes up with any more great questions, please let me know! I added about 20 to the list from PumpingYourMuse already, but I'm always up for more!

Relational:
How old are you?
Who do you look like? Your mother, father, or someone else?
Do you have any brothers or sisters?
Are you married or single?
Do you have someone you care about?
Did you or do you know your grandparents?
Is anyone in your family famous?
Are your parents still living?
Are you adopted?
Who is your best friend?

Personal:
What do you like to drink?
Where did you grow up?
Are you a morning person?
What are your hobbies or interests?
What nervous habits do you have?
Do you have any quirks, secret talents, etc?
What kind of music do you listen to?
What do you do for a living?
What is your education level?
What's your favorite food (or drink)?
Do you travel much?
What do you hope to accomplish in the future?
What burning question(s) do you want answered?
What (or who) haunts you?
Do you like to read?
Where are you going?
How can a person cheer you up when you’re sad?
What’s your biggest secret?
What is your biggest regret?
Do you have any allergies/health problems?

What is (or was) your favorite subject to study?

Which Describes You Best?
Nervous or calm?
Teacher or student?
Leader or follower?
Brave or fearful?
Religious, superstitious or neither?
Humble or proud?
Tall or short?
Long hair or short?
Honest, stretch the truth when necessary, or all out liar?
Introvert or extrovert?
Lover or fighter?
Reactive or proactive?
Creative or Paint-By-Numbers?
Popular, Liked, or Loner?
Spontaneous or a planner?
Dreamer, cynic, or realist?
Philanthropist or Scrooge?
Clueless or Quick?
Organized or chaotic?
Trusting or guarded?

Complicated or What-you-see-is-what-you-get?

Writing Club--The First shall be Last :)

For this prompt, we took the last line of our favorite poem and turned it into the first line of our own original poem. Mine's from Archibald MacLeish's "Ars Poetica":

a poem should not mean, but be.
as dewdrops freezing on a flower petal,
or bumpy itch from the stinging nettle,
the laughter from a tiny child
as he stomps through strawberries grown wild,
a poem dances on the world’s tongue, free.

a poem is the cover of our waking sleep.
it tilts and rises, sways and falls
over model planes and porcelain dolls
and bumps against the nightlight thrice
whilst whistling through sugar and spice,
and up the pipes like a chimney sweep.

a poem is an Artist’s masterpiece
it frames itself in frivolity
and cultures inequality.
it’s painted fears, love, wonder,
our triumph blended with our ev’ry blunder.
it defies the meaning, seeks release.

a poem should not mean, but be…
to puts our insides out to see.

Writing Club: Women of the Moose

For our very first writing club ever, we decided to all write a short piece under the same title. Let me describe writing club to you who have never had the pleasure of being there: first, people come over and we all set up our laptops and/or paper/pens. Then we sit and talk/eat/whatever for several minutes/hours, until someone finally says, "Okay, so, what are we gonna do tonight?" And then we spend a few minutes picking out our prompt from a list we generated during our first meeting. Then, after we have the prompt, we have about 20-30 minutes on average to write to our hearts' content. Then, we share our stories aloud and laugh at each other a lot. It's SO much fun. I wish everyone could do it. I wish we had started it earlier. Since I LOVE to write but haven't had a lot of time since starting school again to really get into it, it's nice to keep in touch with my "muse" once a week or so and keep those creative juices flowing. It's also wonderful to share in the joy of creation with several close friends who enjoy it at least as much as I do.

SO. Here's my "Women of the Moose."

As nighttime’s fog slinks o’er your mind
And wildest dreams let loose,
That is the place each night I find
The women of the moose.

At first a thunderous voice proclaims
So bold it must be Zeus,
“Halt, maiden, and behold my treasured
Women of the Moose!”

I stammer out a spittle sound,
Myself to introduce,
But does he care? Oh, no! He has his
Women of the Moose.

First one of them, her eyes too old
And speech small from disuse,
Approaches me, eyelashes thick,
As all women of the moose

Look on with wary wonderment
At the impending truce.
“Come, follow,” she says simply, and
The women of the moose

Lead me along a river’s bend;
I hear the babbling juice
Of mother earth sing back to these
Fair women of the moose.

I’d run away, but where’d I go?
I find no good excuse,
So follow on in silence, trusting
Women of the moose.

A cave we enter, black as fear,
Designed for a recluse.
Then in the shadows fire lights
And women of the moose

Start dancing fiery ‘round the thing,
And sultry calls produce.
I wonder at their gall and grit,
These women of the moose.

Their shoulders boulders, legs trimmed thin,
Their eyes a watery noose,
I am entranced by their display
As women of the moose.

And all around the forest now
I feel the earth seduced
And sky bewitched in unnatural trance
Called Women of the Moose.

When in their midst I see him rise,
A glorious beast called Bruce,
And tentatively smile do I,
While women of the moose

Bow down devotion, purpose veiled,
But from what I can deduce
I think that Bruce’s harem is
The women of the moose.

And why it is I dream of them
Each night, my mind’s abuse,
Perhaps I’ll tell when I become
Head Woman of the Moose.

Writing Club: First Line

All of our stories had to begin with the phrase "It was the worst day of..."


It was the worst day of band camp in the history of all band camps that ever were. I don’t even have to do any research to know this, I am so certain that it is a fact that I don’t need to. The sun baked the world in a sweltering, sticky 104 degrees, and if it hadn’t been so humid I’m pretty sure we all would have caught fire with the trees around us and gone up in a putrid blaze of prepubescent body odor, Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers, and burning wood on melting brass. Our fingerprints disappeared against the scorch of the metal most of us held, and some had been drinking so many fluids and sweating so profusely that they wet their pants and didn’t even notice, just welcomed the ensuing chill of it. But the heat? That was nothing. What’s a little heat stroke, a bit of sun poisoning? Get a hat and a nice spritzer-fan, and if you didn’t end up in the nurse’s office lying down on rice-paper-and-vinyl by the end of the day then you were fine enough.

It was Porky McPherson that clinched it. Hovering a good head over us at a whopping 5 feet 8 inches, Porky was not at all fat. She was just mean, tough, hard, spiky inside and out, like a porcupine. She dished out a hearty helping of helplessness and then scooped out a spoonful of anger and sprinkled on a bit of good old-fashioned fear for good measure. Her knuckles were forever scarred with a series of crescent moons sprawled out across them, “flesh wounds,” she called them—“and you should’ve seen the other guy.” Her black-as-tar hair was pulled back into a straight and spiky (as all good porcupines ought to have) mass of destruction. I’m not kidding. Brittany Sarver had to go to the nurse last week because Porky’s hair poked her eye until it bled. Porky’s pockets were always full of other kids’ lunch money—half of them kids who didn’t go to our school. Even her parents were afraid of her, which is why they left her alone and never helped her with her homework. But all those failing grades only made Porky angrier...which only made US more black and blue and broke.

For all of her foibles, Porky had one passion—she loved the trombone. And not just because she could slide the end of it into the head of the kids in front of her. That was only a perk. Porky just loved the sound of it. She loved spitting through the vibrations her mouth had to make to get the trombone to play. She loved knowing just where to slide the brass to in order to hit not only kids but notes. She loved the look of the long, slender, hard thing—I think if trombones could have spiky hair and stash lunch money away, then Porky would BE a trombone, but with skin.

Don’t start to like her. There’s no point. The trombone doesn’t save her, because it doesn’t save US. She empties the spit valve on the heads of the clarinet section, she purposefully steps on our toes as we try to march in formation (11-year-olds and big instruments just don’t mix well), she makes fun of everyone else as they try to play their parts, and when band practice is over she’s still Porky, but with some catching up in evilness to do.

Porky made EVERY day the worst day of ANYTHING in the history of ANYTHING.

But YESTERDAY was the worst day of band camp in the history of all band camps that ever were, because yesterday I chose to fight back.

I blame the heat. All that blood boiling just below my temples started my stomach to feeling queasy, and then my knees started to shake and my sunburned feet started to swell and before you knew it I was one sweaty and angry devil of a 13-year-old with mad delusions of power. I made my fatal mistake when Porky swung her long arm around to point to another kid and knocked me upside the head “on accident.” I’m pretty sure a blood vessel in my brain exploded, for nothing else could possibly explain my reaction:

I hit her back!

And now, dear reader, I am destined to die.

Writing Club: Item Description

For this prompt, we had to describe something without really saying what it was. I decided to put myself in the place of a beloved object of mine...



Well, I can say this much for myself: I ain’t no Cinderella.

For one thing, Cinderella had the chance to find her Prince and bear him a brood of royal, photogenic but otherwise very stupid children (I know this because their mother left no alternative). I was never meant to live so I can never die. Barren, void of life and re-productivity, what else is there for me to do?

Secondly, Cinderella’s looks got her a fairy godmother, fancy dress, and two glass slippers that were all her own. My looks (though my only virtue) got me a bucket of dust collecting on my head, tied to a stake awaiting a fire that will never come, and stuck sharing one too-big-for-me-glass-slipper with 20 other ones-of-my-kind. Tell me THAT’S fair.

What’s more, Cinderella got carried away to a grand and glorious castle while the evil beings who tried to control her got the boot in a big way. MY control freak still runs the place, and all I get a view of is everyone’s lazy self sitting on the sofa, not even paying attention to me at all, after all that work they put into me! I was made to be lovely and then forgotten.

Hmm…I wonder what the one with headphones is writing about. Maybe if I put a little more rouge on she’ll notice me and take me home and give me a breath of fresh air and a better view. Darn it! Why don’t I sweat prettily like my better selves do? I have no pheromones with which to attract a mate…or anything, for that matter…

Oh well. At least when everyone else here is rotting away sixty years from now in some burial ground, I’ll probably still be around to tell the tale. That’s the joy of being synthetic.

(I am the red silk flower sitting on the vase on the entertainment center in the living room of Celeste’s and Charissa’s apartment!)

Writing Club: A Clue Story

This was by far one of my favorite prompts, and I'm hoping we do it again. We each had to poll other people and gather together a random name of a person (real or fictitious, living or dead), a place, and an object. Then we exchanged these and used the random prompts to create the story of a crime scene. I think what I love MOST about these writing club nights is that we always come up with so many different ways to approach the same prompt, in every genre and format possible. This is especially true of this prompt. SO, without further ado:

July 22, 1987
Reporting by Celeste Darland

Onlookers in East London were shocked and horrified Tuesday night as beloved American baseball hall-of-famer Joe DiMaggio was led away in handcuffs after a bar brawl gone sour. At least two men were found dead and one other in critical condition, with the main suspect being DiMaggio himself.

“I was just at the Jack for a few tiddley’s when this Septic starts yellin’ all sorts of dickies and suddenly the whole room’s in an uproar,” Aiden Paisley, one witness to the night’s events, explains. “He probably came for a bender but now two blokes is hovis. Then the bottles took him away.”

When asked if he knew DiMaggio’s stature in American culture, Paisley’s only response was, “Sorry, I don’t get on the Liza that much.”

Clearly other Brits are not so ignorant. Protesters lined up outside of the jail cell only a few hours after the arrest, arguing DiMaggio’s innocence or immunity. Chief officials, however, are still interrogating their chief suspect and are not even considering release due to the severity of the crime and the incriminating evidence.

In an official statement released to the press Wednesday morning by the Scotland Yard, a number of witnesses recall DiMaggio allegedly “drinking ‘imself to pieces” and then yelling profanities when two young men came up to ask him for an autograph. DiMaggio threw his glass against the counter and attacked the men with his bare hands, which led several other bystanders into the brawl.

The next thing anyone knew, three bodies were lying on the barroom floor with blunt force trauma to the head and DiMaggio was holding his head in one hand and a bloody doorknob in the other.

“It’s the biggest lemon ‘round the Jack in years,” Paisley professes.

“I’m shocked, actually,” DiMaggio’s lifelong friend Armand Oliveri confides. “I’d never have pegged Joe for a killer, even in the foulest of tempers.”

“But he’s a classic example of the dangers of bottled-up aggression,” argues William Freedman, professor of psychiatry at Columbia and ardent critic of DiMaggio’s. “Sure, he’s a baseball legend and immortalized in every aspect of pop culture, but that was nearly five decades ago. Since then he’s seen the horrors of war, the hypocrisy of American idealism and being an ‘enemy alien’ in his own land, and two wives who he could never find the right balance for.”

“Marilyn (Monroe) did hit him hard,” Oliveri concedes. “But even then he was heartbroken, lost, not a raving lunatic.”

Evidence from key witnesses, however, suggests it was not the torment of his past that drove him to it. It was a mispronunciation of DiMaggio’s Italian name. “The kid pronounced his name wrong,” one American-born witness who wishes to remain anonymous claims. “Any true fan of Joe’s knows that it’s di-MAH-joh, not di-MAH-gee-oh like the media always says, and that he hates that. I guess with all the alcohol in him, he just couldn’t take one more idiot butchering his name.”

While the motive is still under investigation, the trial date yet to be slated, and fans across the world simultaneously disillusioned and driven to defend this American icon, one thing remains fairly certain:

It was Joe DiMaggio. In London. With a doorknob.

Writing Club: Random Words

Random Words Prompt (We each submitted 3 words and then had to include all the words in a short selection):

TRAILER, FLABBERGASTED, MISSPELL, DETECTIVE, RIVAL, REVERBERATE, ENEMY, AXLE, PREMONITION, CANOLA, INTRUDER, COUNTRY-FRIED


"SMOKE SIGNALS"

Day #37 of my captivity
If you’re reading this, HELP! I can’t take it anymore. I know that sometimes in the past I haven’t always been the nicest girl, but I didn’t think I had any real enemies. So why won’t you help me? I’m trapped! Forced to do manual labor against my will! Woman down, people, save me! Seriously. Child labor laws and edicts against cruel and unusual punishment and yet still I sit here, rotting away, “thinking about what I did”. Like three months grounding is going to UNDO any of it. Psh, what am I saying? I’d do it again, anyway. Oh, I’m thinking about what I did all right, pops...and savoring every sweet morsel of the memory!

See, it all started about four months ago when Derek Slainey moved here. OMG, I totally had some SERIOUS premonitions about that guy! And I was RIGHT! I was sitting in homeroom talking to Hallie when in he struts, running his pale fingers through his dark, scraggly hair. His pockmarked face was sheen with a thin layer of oil—shiny, like canola—and his lanky arms swayed awkwardly at his side with every swagger. He SO wouldn’t have been much to look at, except for those EYES. Emerald green and oh-so-entrancing, it’s like some god of good looks started to work his magic on Derek but then got caught up doing touch-up work on Zac Efron and just sort of...forgot to finish. But Derek doesn’t seem to notice, or at least not to mind, because with that hair and those eyes he’s still got a dozen girls rivaling for his affections. Hallie, of course, is one of them. (But when has there been a guy she HASN’T fallen head-over-heels for at first sight?)

As the disrupting whispers of this newcomer danced around his footsteps, his very presence seemed to reverberate off the locker-lined walls. Hallie immediately sent me to the usual detective work—

“Welcome to Baylor High! Where’d you get displaced from? Do you have any pets? What’s your favorite music? Do you have a girlfriend? Do you want one?”

Pitiful.

Well, I can take one for the team, especially for Hallie, I mean, hey, what are BFF’s for, right? But this guy gave me the creeps from day one, and I did NOT want to do my BFF duty this time around. It was with fear and much trepidation that I approached Derek at lunchtime, offering him a place to sit.

The problem with almost-cute guys is that they’re still unsure of exactly how attractive they are, even if they fake it otherwise, so they eat up any compliment you pay them and if you’re not careful they assume you’re in love with them by the end of the conversation. Derek was just another “guy”, which in my opinion wasn’t really saying much, Hallie could TOTALLY do better than having some pod-person intruder into our already slammin’ rhythm, y’know? But whatev. She’s a big girl, she can handle herself. Derek’s too-smooth-for-you lines did nothing to me, so I escaped and ran off to tell Hallie everything I’d uncovered.

If only I’d known how such innocent events and everyday happenings at Derek’s arrival were going to set in motion such a strange and perilous snowball effect.

Day #38 of my weary and depressing exile
“I’ll call you,” Derek told me that afternoon in what could only be described as a scene from a lame preteen movie trailer. He even held his hands, pinky and thumb outstretched, to the side of his head, like he was the guy who had invented hand gestures and therefore I must worship him. (I gave him a few of my own once his back was turned.)

It was when he DID call that I was flabbergasted. He called me at 6:02. Then, when he went for dinner at 6:37, he was back on the phone by 6:42 and he talked to me until 9:21. HE talked. I didn’t even get a word in, but I couldn’t hang up. It was like mind-control, I’d lost all power over my motor skills, like a wheel without an axle my mind was meandering, rolling, spinning, wobbling, idling, dying. Paralysis of will. I’d misspell my own name, if I’d had power to write it. What was he doing? What was he saying? Why couldn’t I just HANG UP the FREAKING PHONE already?!

It was the next day in homeroom, as he waltzed by and I could smell the country-fried steak on his breath from yesterday, that I decided I didn’t need all the answers. I needed to act. NOW. Whatever creepster magic this kid had power to cast, I wasn’t going to be the girl caught in its web. And neither was Hallie. There was no thought, only instinct: Derek had to disappear.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Writing Club: ABC Story

For this prompt, we had to write a "story" or piece of written work that included 26 sentences, each one starting with the next consecutive letter of the alphabet. Here's what I came up with (you can always tell a lot about me by the things I choose to write about):

ABC Story
Genre: RANT (nonfiction)

All education majors are not dumb. Believe it or not, it’s true. Contrary to popular belief, some of us are truly devoted to our art. Dedication to our students, a strong work ethic, creativity, and a passion for learning are what drive the true Teachers. Every time I hear the voice of these two girls in my Block III class, I want to hurl something at their perfectly-coiffed heads. “Frat parties, weekend trips home, and hours upon hours complaining and avoiding any real work will NOT get you anywhere. Guess what? Horrible things will happen to you your first year. I know it,” (or at least I HOPE so…or else I’d be wasting all my time and talents and tuition and energies and passions and excitements for a career that any Joe Schmoe, literally, could come off the street and do. Just like factory work making zippers, or pooper scoopers at the humane society, or...politicians?)

Kids. LOVE ‘em. My biggest frustration is not that all my lame and totally undeserving fellow Boilers will probably get better-paying jobs quicker than I will, but that the kids will suffer. Needlessly. Opinionated, obtuse, overbearing, obstinate oafs will ruin their lives, and probably never even know or care. Probably even quit after their first year because the workload will be TEN TIMES that of Block III. Questioning, reasoning, investigating, discussing—all lost arts in the education world. Recently I’ve begun to wonder where I belong in all of this. Student teaching applications are upon me and I don’t know where to go. To Chicago, where the need for people like me is greater, or Otterbein, where I’ll get that easy A? University life doesn’t really prepare us for choices like these, so we must leap out on our own with confidence in whatever we decide. Very, very scary. Will I make it without hurting my fellow teachers-to-be in the process? X. (The annoying buzzing sound from the “x” on Family Feud…I had to get creative). You know, I’m glad I’m me and not all of them. Zeal and grit and passion and competence will get me farther in the long run…right?

Writing Club: Pass-the-story

By popular demand, I am going to start posting all the writings from writing club, starting with the most recent and moving backward. Last night, we did a pass-the-story, which would've been more fun if people hadn't turned it into a big fight and made Paul feel like he didn't belong there, but whatev. Here's the story, along with my vote that we (a) either never do a pass-the-story again, or (b) let everyone know that in CREATIVE writing, as difficult as it may be to understand someone else's motivation for writing certain things, it's their right to do so and no one "ruins" someone else's writing, so everyone should just relax and let it be fun...honestly, if this sort of thing keeps up I'm going to have to discontinue writing club, which just makes me kinda sad and mad to think about, since I'm one of the ones who started it, and since I never thought I'd have friends who'd end up making a situation where I had to pick either them or Paul. But the truth is, even if Paul's in the wrong, he's my husband-to-be and I am going to have to pick his side. So don't make me pick, or you lose.

*Whew* There's my rant. And now it's over. Anywho, without further ado, here's the pass-the-story, in which we each had 3 minutes to write a bit and then we passed it to the next person, and after 5 more people we ended up reading aloud the one that everyone else had finished for you. It was really fun to hear how differently things started and ended, and how you can just tell when certain people are writing (and it's NOT just because of the names and phrases frequently used by people, but their style). :) I don't have a good title for this pass-a-story yet, so I apologize. Here it is:


When the thick darkness wrapped around me until I could no longer breathe, I gave up. The trail was sunken where an oversized rotting log insisted I rest, and I heeded its beckoning call. Perspiration soaked my upper lip, and the saltiness I caught occasionally on my tongue as I tried to calm my ragged breathing only reminded me of the stabbing hunger pains in my stomach.

I hate fast Sundays! Any other day of the week—any other day of the month, I can wake up and forget to eat until either 5 or 6 at night, but for some reason, fast Sundays come around, and I’m hungry as I fall asleep at 12:01 AM. What sense does that make?! Is it all psychological? What sense does psychology make?! You would think that our minds would want to PROTECT us from evilness, not say over and over again, “Hey, you know what day it is? It’s fast Sunday! It’s fast Sunday, person. Yes, and now—still fast Sunday.” Stupid minds! Stupid subconscious.

The gnawing pains in my stomach grew stronger. There was no escaping. I should have known that deep in the woods I wouldn’t be able to find any food. I should have known to plan ahead for this. The bitter hindsight kicked me again and again. I was lost and alone, and slowly starving. My body was growing weaker with every moment. Perhaps I couldn’t make it out of the woods… but I was going to make it farther than this silly log. I refuse to give up until I cannot walk any more.

It wasent that much longer anyway. Thiry yards till the claring and I fall. And of course on this terrible Sunday I break my ankle, fall down a hill and end up in a strange city where for some reason there a man with a scar over his left eye watching me. “want some food?” he asks. “no I cant its fast Sunday I cant break fast you know.” I responded cheerfully. “you cant do what now?” he asked as he slowly backed up. “I cant eat. Yaknow fast Sunday and all that.” I said. “there haven’t been those in years. Whare are you from.” He said slightly hostily. “Overallious.” I responded. “Attack!” screamed the man.

Out of the dark alleyways and dingy streets appeared a horde of raggedly clothed, wretched children. “Here,” grinned the man. “This is how we welcome people to our city.”
The children had bits of metal as they screamed their battle cry… “TODAY IS A GOOD DAY TO DIE!” which the man thought was funny, because it was night, and a dark and rainy one at that. It was a good thing that I knew where I wanted to go. I ripped past the looming battle and headed for the mountain. On top of that mountain was my goal, was what I was fasting for. The shrine. At last I would have my revenge on Aaron or Edward or whatever his name was. What’s in a name anyway…ha, Bella… mine supposedly means beautiful. But no, from now on I shall be called… something else. Whatever, I’ve got a shrine to get to…first how do I get through this creepy cemetery to that old sacred looking building… maybe I’ll wait until tomorrow… Monday… oh no, I tried to repress the memory of that fateful Monday… but I could not. Oh Charlie, why can’t you be with me right now to comfort me?

The pain dissipated as I remembered my goal. The shrine. I bowed to the altar at the shrine and I could feel it. Enlightenment. It wasn’t fast Sunday, it was heavan. I had been so scared. All my feelings, my thoughts… I was reliving it all. I miss you Charlie. I’m dying, but it’s so beautiful. It was terrifying, horrid, but then… like Fast Sunday, when it’s all over… You’re proud. You’re happy. You’re complete. You ARE one with him, your father. The journey was long a hard, but worth it…