Of Insomnia

I think people tell me to count sheep to fall asleep because sheep are the most boring characters out there. I shouldn’t be able to help but snooze if I’m forced to watch them jumping over a fence over and over. But in my mind, the sheep don’t just jump like they’re supposed to. The first one does a front flip, the next a triple axel. From then on, the moves get more complicated, as do the costumes adorning the sheep. There’s one that’s fond of pole vaulting. Biker-sheep revs the engine of its Harley, then drives up a ramp and soars over, black leather jacket flapping in the wind. The next sheep, adorned in swim trunks, surfs over as a wave engulfs the fence.

The sheep in the back are impatient. Running up to the front, they try to steal a spot closer in line, but there is no line anymore, it’s just a mob.

“Hey! Get baaa-a-a-a-a-k to your spot!” One sheep complains.

“You can’t pull the wool over my eyes!” another one asserts.

One tough looking ewe with an eye patch pulls a bazooka out of her wool. Another sheep, all in black, unsheathes a machete. Ninja stars fly. Flame throwers torch. Someone activates a wolf-launcher, and everything goes haywire.

Ah! Insomnia! It turns my mind into a leaf blower, droning on and on at a steady buzz. Never resting. Thoughts pinwheel through, twisting together like the colors on a candy cane. Sheep blow each other up with hand grenades as I try to remember what the highest occupied molecular orbital of acetate is for chemistry. Under the Capitol’s orders, peacekeepers abduct a litter of kittens. I have to drive on a road with more windy turns than an overcooked noodle. The road turns out to be a river with a waterfall at the end.

I try to concentrate on nothing and let my mind go blank, but since nothing in essence is something, it doesn’t help. My limbs don’t really exist, I tell myself. But my foot itches, so they do. I listen to my own even breathing, but the breaths turn into seashore waves that wash me into the ocean and drown me beneath the crushing pressure of colorful coral reef thoughts.

Is there no solution? Must I lie on this bed until the shadows shift into the fuzzy light of early morning and the dawn claims me? Then I’d have to drag myself to my 8:00 class as if I were the ghost of Christmas past, moaning and wrapped in chains.

I had several options. I could do nothing, letting my thoughts spin like a cotton candy maker until the candy ran out and I fell asleep. I could get up and do some productive studying. Or I could chug some Nyquil. One thing was for sure. Never again would I drink coffee an hour before I went to bed.

Reflecting on the Tayari Jones Reading

The way Tayari Jones gave inflection to her reading made the story come alive. I could picture everything happening as plausible. Though I couldn’t relate much to any of her characters, I didn’t mind much because they were interesting to hear about. After she’d finished reading, I found myself wondering what happened next.

I liked how she said that it didn’t matter what your writing process was. If you ended up with a book at the end, then than was the way to do it. She admitted that she usually deletes two thirds of what she wrote in order to come up with the right story, which is encouraging to me. Sometimes I feel that if I have to spend too much time with a piece, and the words don’t flow from the pencil like magic, I’m doing something wrong, or the story isn’t any good and I should just delete the whole thing and start again with something fresh. But sometimes that’s just the way it works.

Even though the book is fiction, she included things that happened in her own life, like putting paper between her teeth, or her father giving her mother a carving knife for their anniversary. I’ve often wondered how writers come up with quirky details like those to make the characters seem more real. When I read fiction, I tend to think that everything is made up.

I’m glad she mentioned how reading aloud helps her edit dialogue. I admit it – I hate reading my writing out loud. Especially formal essays. I can see how it would help, though. It’s much easier to tell if my writing is stuffy, corny, or nonsensical if I listen to it. That’s probably why I hate doing it. The stupidity that jumps out is so obvious that I despair of ever turning it into something worthwhile. If I want to improve, though, I should probably start proof-reading out loud.

The Fitz family was proud to say they were NOT perfectly normal, thank you very much.

“She needs to sort out her priorities,” my brother Connor said. “Okay, who said that, who to, what movie?”

Without skipping a beat, I said, “Ron Weasley, to Harry Potter, in the Sorcerer’s Stone.” That one was easy. Now it was my turn. “I can mend bones in a heartbeat, but growing them back - !”

“Madame Pomphrey, to Harry Potter, in the Chamber of Secrets.” He paused a second to gather his thoughts. “And they say I’m mad!”

“Mad-eye Moody, to Barty Crouch, in the Goblet of Fire,” my little sister Carmalyn interjected. Then she said, “I knew I could do it, because, well, I’d already done it!”

“Harry Potter, to Hermoine Granger, in the Prisoner of Azkaban.”

The three of us could do this all day. They didn’t have to be long quotes, either. “Only one”, “We’ve heard”, “Absolutely spiffing!”, “Always”.

“Mermaid, to Harry Potter, in the Goblet of Fire.”

“Hagrid, to Bane the centaur, in the Sorcerer’s Stone.”

“Fred Weasley, to Harry Potter, in the Chamber of Secrets.”

“Severus Snape, to Dumbledore, in the Deathly Hallows.”

“Part one or part two?”

“Part two.”

Both movie and book quotes were fair game. Since all of us had read the seven book series at least three times, it was only fair. Besides, so much good stuff had been taken out of the movies! JK Rowling deserved credit as an author.

As for the movies themselves, we’d watched all of them except for the Deathly Hallows ones innumerable times. But I’d been thrilled when I got the DVDs for Part one and two of the last movie for Christmas. Finally, the collection was complete, and we could start watching the last two again and again! So many quotes to mine…

“He’s covered in blood. Why is he always covered in blood?”

“Ginny Weasley, to Ron and Hermione, in the Half Blood Prince.”

“I’ll tell my father about this!”

“Draco Malfoy, to Harry Potter, in the Prisoner of Azkaban.”

“Nice one, James!”

“Sirius Black, to Harry Potter, in the Order of the Phoenix.”

The books spanned our childhood. We’d grown up pointing sticks at each other and shouting at least two dozen memorized spells while playing in the backyard. After copying the Hogwarts school supply list from the Sorcerer’s Stone book, we pillaged the house for books on herbs, stuffed animal owls, and huge pots we dubbed “cauldrons”, pretending we were about to become first year students. The marbles in our colorful collections were named after Harry Potter characters.

“Fifty points if it goes through her HEAD!”

“Moaning Myrtle, to Harry and Ron, in the Chamber of Secrets.”

“It unscrews the other way.”

“Professor McGonagall, to Peeves, in the Order of the Phoenix.”

Even though we were all very disappointed when our letter from Hogwarts didn’t come on our eleventh birthday, we knew reality from fantasy by then and contented ourselves with our imaginings.

“Oi! There’s a war going on here!”

“Harry Potter, to Ron and Hermione, in the Deathly Hallows.”

“Part one or two?”

“Neither. That’s from the book.”

“Can you… hear me?”

“Harry Potter, to a boa constrictor, in the Sorcerer’s Stone.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.”

“The first sentence in the Sorcerer’s Stone.” Even if it wasn’t dialogue, we could still play the game just as well.

It’s just what we do. It’s something we all agree on. Being siblings, things like that are sometimes hard to come by. I hope the magic of the books never wanes and we never grow too old to see it.

“Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth does that mean it is not real?”

Wilson: Dog, not Volleyball

Wilson is seventy two. In dog years, that is. In people years, he’s eight. At his age, he should be languishing by the fireside on a nice, soft pillow while eating dog biscuits. But fate hasn’t favored him. For as long as can remember, Wilson hasn’t known a caring family, warm bed, or easy-to-come-by food.

Instead, chill morning mists dampen his shabby reddish gold coat as he limps toward the docks. His fur would be beautiful if brushed, but there is no one to brush it. He limps because his nails have grown so long that they are underneath his paws, digging painfully into his pads with every step. Sniffing the air, he swings his head so his one good eye can see the fishing boat before him.

There are scraps on the boat, left over from the fishing expedition the day before. Not much, but enough to tempt a half starved stray dog. Without hesitation, Wilson scrabbles into the boat and laps up every tidbit he can find.

He doesn’t even realize the fishermen are coming back until too late. While the men cast off, he has no choice but to hide in the shadows. As he watches the land dwindle until his eye can hardly see it anymore, he lets out an involuntary whine.

“Mangy mutt! Trying to steal my work, eh?” One of the men abruptly turns to him, scooping him up by the scruff and tossing him out of the boat as if he’s had to do the same thing countless times before. To the fisherman, he is simply garbage, a waste of space. Worse, because he would eat the man’s fish if given the chance.

Wilson’s paws flail as he soars through the air, and then start paddling to the surface furiously as he hits the water with a splash. Salty water sloshes up his nose and stings his good eye – his poor eye is ablaze with fiery pain. Though he tries to dog-paddle after the boat, it has sails to aid its escape, and soon he can no longer see it among the bobbing waves.

But which way should he go now? There is no land anywhere, and his long furry coat and ears are weighing him down in the water. It’s all he can do to keep his nose afloat, and sometimes he goes under, breathing in more water and almost choking.

He has two choices: give up to the vast expanse of churning water that’s just waiting for its chance to swallow him up, or keep paddling. It would be easier for him to let the tugging waves have him, let himself be taken away from the world that has no use for him, but his will is strong. He keeps swimming, despite the ever persistent water around him.

There is nowhere to go, but he goes. There is nothing to live for, but he lives. For two days, stranded in the middle of the sea, he survives. When rescuers find him and bring him to shore, he slips into a week long slumber.

Because of his multitude of medical issues and all the salt water in his ears in stomach, no one thinks he will survive. Again, he proves the world wrong. He lives to be taken to Whitecourt Homeless Animal Rescue Foundation(WHARF). There, Janet Talbott falls in love with him when his story breaks her heart in two.

After adopting him, she whispers in his ear, “You will have the life every day that every animal deserves.” Kissing the top of his now glossy head, she adds, “You will receive love on a daily basis.”

http://news.discovery.com/animals/mexico-stray-dogs-121301.html

http://www.edmontonjournal.com/life/pets/Edmonton+lover+gives+Wilson+life+deserves+last/5967215/story.html

Just Another White T-shirt

Climbing over the side railing, I jumped to the steps and started booking it upward. The rest of my half of the soccer team chugged behind me, worn out from the last hour and a half of the across-town scavenger hunt. Our nemesis – the other half of the soccer team – struggled up the stairs in front of us.

After sixty two stairs, I had to stop and catch my breath. Putting my hands over my head, I looked up at the sky while slowly walking up more stairs. The beaming sun leached the sweat from my skin, not helping me regain any energy.

Before we even knew about the hunt, it was exciting. The coach had kept it a secret until the day of, only saying that she had something “special” planned. Then she’d smiled deviously.

That day, less people showed up for practice than usual. But still, our coach split us up into two teams, handed out the paper with the scavenger hunt items on it, and explained the rules. The most important rule was that we couldn’t split up to gather the things we needed. We’d be safer that way, plus we’d get more exercise.

To ramp up the competition, our coach noted in passing that there was a prize involved for the team that got the most correct answers the fastest. True to her nature, she wouldn’t tell us what the prize was no matter how much we pestered her, only saying that she had to order it online and it was going to be expensive for her. Then she let us loose in Morgantown.

The two teams headed different ways, not wanting to make each other feel like they were cheating of their rival’s answers. Once we were a good distance away, my team skimmed over the list. Then we headed off to find out what year the coliseum was built, acquire a pen, and get two signatures from employees at a Mexican restaurant.

After about halfway through the second part of the list, we realized that we’d forgotten the pen, so I ran downstairs in the building we were in to ask the administrator there if I could borrow one. She refused. I considered just grabbing the unopened ten-pack of pens lying on the counter, but then decided against it. I found one elsewhere.

After running up and down hills, dodging pedestrians, and bothering people with questions about what year Colonel Sanders founded KFC (before thinking it through, we also asked what state KFC was founded in) we headed toward the last challenge: counting the steps on the staircase to Law Hill.

“A hundred and twenty eight!” my teammate gasped as she made it to the top. “That’s what I got. Anyone get something different?”

The rest of us shook our heads, so she scribbled down the number on a wrinkled and slightly damp answer sheet. While the coach tallied the results, the team lounged around at the top of the stairs, drinking water like addicts.

The half of the team I was on ended up winning, but it wasn’t until months later, right before the championship game of the very last tournament of the season, that we got our prize.

You can say that they were just a bunch of white t-shirts, but to us it was more than that, because they had a meaning only we knew about. On the front in gold and blue lettering were the words “West Virginia United Soccer Club”, and on the back was a quote. “It is the team, not the individual, who is the ultimate champion.” Which meant, of course, that our whole team got them, not just the half that won the scavenger hunt. Nobody minded, because it felt right that way.

With Mia Hamm’s words in our minds, we went out and played our last game together, as a team.