Strange Little Story

Consider yourself cautioned.

“Plethora.... “ Alice bent heavily over the tattered paperback volume on her lap. It was recess again, but as always she barely noticed. Her only concession to the daily one-thousand-eight-hundred seconds she expended on the courtyard was that she now slouched cross-legged on icy concrete with her back to the pockmarked brick wall. The rest of the day she was slouched in scared wooden desk in a somber classroom with paper windowshades and three year old posters on the walls. Alice didn't like the classroom either, but at least there the world was smaller, and she could take care of her friends in the desk.

“What are you reading, Alice in wonderland?”

Alice shuddered. One of the mean little boys was near her again, and now it was leaning over her with it's sticky sweet breath and gooey fingers and wet, wet...

“I said, Alice Balice, what are you reading??”

She raised her head slowly to glare at the awful imposing creature, squinting to protect her eyes. Dirty dark hair in strands like seaweed, grubby skin with a greenish tint, a mouth rimmed with faded crimson crust. Coat bleached from rolling in the snow, dangling off him and open because the zipper was broken. And the sneakers...

With a surge of detached dismay Alice suddenly found herself ensnared by the rapturous miasma of those sneakers. Brown and sweat stained, they were so thin that Alice could see the boy's toes between the tattered fibers. She watched in wonder as the lacy membrane stretched and strained with every shift in weight. Almost, almost, she could see each thread grimace and sigh with the limbo, hear the creak as they bent atop of their eternal neighbors. She could cry at their torment, she could give each a name, group them into families long forgotten...

“C'mon, Alice, what are you reading? Lemme see, c'mon!”

Alice barely noticed as her book was lifted from between her slack, waxy fingers. Would they recognize each other? What would she...

“The dictionary?”

The reverie died.

“Alice in wonderland, you're reading the dictionary?”

He throat was suddenly clay. Her book... it had her book? How dare it, that horrendous, dirty... She tried to regain her feet but stumbled in her fury...

A shrill gong fell like fire on her ears, and she crouched down, curling within herself. Dimly, she heard a thump next to her, and the swollen roar of people choking doorways. Alice blinked, and gathered her fallen comrade to her chest. The one-thousand-eight-hundred seconds were gone.
Unsteady on uneven feet, she wove her solitary path back to the dark, refrigerated classroom. She hoped the glue had kept an eye on the new pencils, like she had asked it.

I'm not really sure where that came from...

Consider the Source

Recently, I've become fascinated with the nature of the origin. I do this every so often, plunging into an obscure query that no one quite knows how to respond to. A few months ago it was 'What are tissues made of?' Ah, the ringing silence that followed that one...

My current confusion causes me to ponder whenever the mood strikes me, where do things come from? Senior Cut Day, bottled water, bean bag chairs... What was the motive? But names, in particular, elicit extensive meditation. Hebrew names, for the most part, are one way or another traced back to history I know, but where does the name, say, Amelia come from? Or Frederick? Or Lucille? Did they come from words perhaps, from Latin or Greek? From a plant name? And ultimately, how did that object, that static noun evolve into a term that could entitle a person for the rest of their lives? Why is Violet an accepted (if slightly outdated) name, while Begonia is not? Who decided that Pearl and Ruby made appealing names, while Amethyst and Opal do not? And why? I always seem to end up at the why of things. I walk through the maze of a problem in my mind, following the tracks others have made on similar quests, fighting not to become ensnared by every unique niche, until as always I return to this door. I can actually see it, plain and worn from countless shoulders rammed against it in frustration, vaguely glossy after endless backs have sunk down against it in defeat. A small, nondescript sign dangles lopsidedly from a nail, asking, lest you have forgotten, 'Why?'. This mundane portal exudes a tantalizing, almost seductive aura of satisfaction, close to irresistable as it evokes wave after wave of humanity's most ancient goad- curiosity. And halfway down the door there hovers a nearly invisible keyhole, into which fits a miniscule, prefect, glowing key. But you must bring the key with you to the door, and once you arrive without it, you must begin all over.

I don't know whether this phenomenon is a blessing or a curse, but I suppose the origin problem can be quelled in kind with 'why'- The answer is not always the end, as long as the beginning is just as strong a motivation.

An Exercise in Esteem

I admit that poetry contests were never precisely my cup of tea (usually because deadlines are a personal poison) but as anything my dear MN suggests is worth a considerable amount of time and effort, I have decided to submit a poem to this contest.

Redemption

United
Stands the Nation,
Trembling with trepidation,
Blind in the depths of their contemplation,
Savoring their inspiration,
At the foot of the Mountain.

Divided
Lies the Nation,
Huddled in their limp prostration,
Discarded is the congregation,
Lost is the hope for divine salvation,
Sentenced to damnation,
As the City burns.

Indifferent
Sprawls the Nation,
Blind and content in their rich situation,
Unaware of condemnation,
Deaf to all abrasion,
They wallow in abject adoration,
Of their hollow fortresses.

Finally One
Thunders the Nation,
Shining in the halo of their glorification,
Alight in sacred jubilation,
Glowing from the fire of their fresh consecration,
The last coronation,
And the Lord of the Hosts reigns acknowledged by all.

I wrote this last year. What do you think?

The Shabbos Sisters

It is a very odd thing to be in school on Shabbos. Physical differences abound, obviously- I totter around in my three inch heels and skirts that kiss the crevice below my knees where ordinarily I scurry around in thick-soled loafers and floor sweeping black pleats. My hair is smooth and tame and the bags under my eyes are (I hope) marginally lighter than their accustomed hue of thunderstorm gray. But external differences are dwarfed next to the revolution in mindset. Five days a week, my role in school is generally restricted that of a student, with occasional pinch-hitting as a friend and messenger. On Shabbos, however, I participate in a program that organizes groups to occupy girls from the ages of five to eleven on Shabbos afternoon. My charges are a collection of fourth grade girls, the size and dynamic of which varies from week to week. Along with a friend, I attempt to entertain these girls for an hour and a half, utilizing every childhood game I can recall (which are not many- my sister and I usually preferred entertainment of the imaginary genre). While my authority operates strictly on an individual basis, it is still quite a jolt to suddenly occupy a position of leadership in the very room where I am often reprimanded for tardiness. The oddity is yet compounded by the fact that I was a great devotee of this program when I was younger, and my memory still reveres the leaders of my past.

Being a leader in this program is an enormous lesson in patience. I had not ever before considered the overwhelming volume of energy it must take to be a teacher. Baby-sitting, though the presiding hobby of my peers, has never held any attraction for me at all. I do not particularly enjoy taking care of children, particularly those I do not know, and money was never something I had much desire to procure for myself. And yet somehow, for some reason, I became a member of this program, and have had to tap into reserves I had no idea existed.

Today, for instance, my co-leader was unable to come, and I was left to exert order over what quickly became a large, raucous gaggle of nine or ten girls. One girl in particular, who had not attended in several weeks, posed a particular problem. For some unbeknownst reason, she and another girl became exceedingly wild and erratic, progressing to the point of mild insanity. And of course, as with all children still so easily susceptible to group mentality, the fervor caught on. No game was able to distract them for any useful length of time, and as yet more girls arrived, I was soon reduced to a powerless figure attempting to make myself heard above a din I could never hope to rival. A game of limbo, suggested by the overall head, became a squabble over the height of the bar (which I attempted to suspended by holding one end and pressing the other against the wall) and whether girls had or had not violated the rules. (I had never known limbo could be so absurdly complicated!) In addition to which, my shoes, which I had removed in order to stand on a chair and raise the bar, were quickly seized by the two aforementioned girls and paraded on small, sweaty, wholly unwelcome feet. They undid the buckles and then squabbled over which of the two could wear them when. I eventually had to pad around the ground floor and basement in my school in nothing but stockings until I located the culprits and was able to regain my much abused heels.

Let me not give too negative an impression, however! Amusingly enough, I have actually enjoyed some previous weeks experiences, though at the beginning it was extremely rough going. There are four weeks left of this program- hopefully the future will mirror the past more than the present.

The Interstice

Into nighttime's sundered calling
Slips the whispered breath of beams
Through the mantle, almost falling
Heralding the death of dreams.

Pale satins softly growing
Ink diffused on virgin silk
Heaven's histories aglowing
Laced with morning's golden milk.

Stage's gauzy veil rising
Leads celestial players forth
A signature of each suprising
Dawn that guides the sunrise north.

Nineteen Days...

The theory behind creating a blog, as far as I can suppose, is to allow your thoughts, opinions, and musings to enter an arena where anyone who wishes can view them, and in turn impart their own pebbles of personality. This, of course, has many facets to it, both positive and negative, and each blogger establishes his or her comfort margin as he or she posts.

Although I initially started Ink As Rain as a pseudo-diary for my friends, I am absolutely elated and honored by the feedback I have received in the process. I adore posting, and every comment elicits an extensive range of onomatopoeia. Every day brought literary opportunities I had never recognized before, and I found such a wonderful method to express them...

Before February 18th.

On February 18th, I became aware that a particular individual had slid into the ranks of the readers of Ink as Rain. Believe me when I say that the presence of this person is an immeasurable insult to everyone here. This individual has inflicted unbelievable suffering at the hands of this person, and this person has embraced behaviors and habits which can kindly be described as disgusting.

I don't want to drag out what this person's betrayal has done to my life. I have already composed several posts regarding this that remain unposted, all of which contain such bitter, unincompassibly angry invective that I am slightly intimidated by the force of my emotions. But now that I know this person is reading, I feel utterly trapped. To continue while this person reads is abhorrent to me, but at the same time I desperatly wish to continue my blog.

I have spent the past nineteen days grappling with this Gordian Knot, and I remain at a loss. I feel terrible to dredge this up here, in front of you all, but I am in desperate need of advice. I hope that perhaps the perspective of bloggers will help me find an answer.

Apolitical

I am blessed to have friends without politics. From what I've gathered from the conversation of some of my more peripheral acquaintances (and yes, I admit it, the movies) high school is barely high school without backstabbing, three way phone calls and ambiguous text messaging that leave you in one sided relationships. And I won't get started on the sewage those of the opposite gender introduce into the mix! Just listening to a very smart, rational girl I know recount the epic of her various beaus made me dizzy.
My friends have no boyfriends. My friends don't have cell phones (though not for lack of trying.) We rarely even speak on the phone, except for the occasional homework query. My anti-social tendencies are a running joke between the three of us, and yet somehow they lure me out too subtly to recognize. Topics for conversation are plucked from the air around us and we fill the spaces with laughter. We can be quiet together, tired together, in pain and in horribly rotten moods together, and begrudge each other not a moment. Competition is not a factor between us, and I have never complained about one to the other. It is to them that I owe every particle of public confidence, humor and happiness I posses.
And somehow, together, the future does not scare me.