Somewhere In-between

I'm somewhere in-between. Although, according to everyone else, that's not acceptable. I'm supposed to be some senior overexposing myself to the "last spring semester I'll ever have." I get that, I do. I just can't part with the feeling that I've grown out of Athens. I'm antsy. Twitchy. I can't sit still.

But I do still sit at a sticky bar stool, on a Sunday night. It's well below any temperature that I can convince myself to put my contacts in for or swipe on some make up or wear anything other than a chunky, thick sweater. Yet, here I am. Sitting with the dear friends I've made that talked me into going out on a Sunday because, "No school Monday equals Sunday Funday." They made a charade out of it, playing dress up with me earlier after offering to wake me up with some bronzer and a pop of the right eyeliner.

We sit at a table off to the side that I'm surprised we were able to snagged. It's wall-to-wall, shoulder-to-shoulder, standing-room-only. I tune out the "I can't believe we're seniors, let's take a lot of shots" conversation and become heavily engrossed in people-watching, catching some tiny brunette with her blonde friend in tow. They make a bee line for the bar, squeezing between some  guys already waiting for drinks. Smiling unapologetic, trying to look like they fit in with a mature crowd. 

I get it. I was them once. But maturity wouldn't be suggested from their mini-skirts with thin, black tights for coverage. And that cotton cardigan is not a coat. They shouldn't be here and yet, I can't help but envy them. They aren't in-between, they're exactly where they should be - and I want to go home.

I Remember Lake St. Mary's

I remember the salt-coated, fishy lake smell. I remember the rumble of the jet skis as they were revved up. The flicker of the nighttime bonfires, the onion-y taste of Aunt Eva's homemade chip dip. I remember golf-cart rides. I remember the all-encompassing warmth of the sun if I laid on the back seat of the pontoon, that could be found floating in front of the A-frame lake house that matched the sky on a clear day.

I remember seeing him in the distance, down the dock. Leaning back in a plastic, uncomfortable chair, he looked perfectly content - just becasue of the fishing pole resting up against the arm of the chair. So many times I watched his shaky hands reach for bait and attach it to the string. So many times I begged my aunt for my own fishing pole to hold steady next to him, stand next to him - barely tall enough to reach the trucker's hat covering his gray hair. 

So few times I actually caught something. He congratulated me, but made me throw it back, the slippery fish wriggling out of my hands as soon as it got a whiff of the lake again. So many times I wondered why we had to throw them back to the water. That day, I remembered all of this as we sprinkled his ashes into the same lake, back with the fish he taught me how to catch, so long ago.

Note: I know I'm a little late posting this one - but I figured I would now and dedicate it to my Grandpa Marlin. His birthday was this past Monday, Jan. 27th. :)

Response: "Those Who Stay and Those Who Go"

First of all, I know we're not supposed to write about what happens, but I have to point out - this story should have been about my hometown. If you don't attempt to go you never will. You'll stay there, get a job, marry someone that grew up right there, next to you. This really helped me understand the structure.

That being said, the way this piece is written is done very well. In the beginning, it's like we get a view of the town from a "behind a moving car window" perspective. Daum takes us on a mental trip down her reality of memory lane, as she uses sentences that don't necessarily stop or continue in the right place. As if she's sitting next to us in the car saying, "Over there is the high school and the other gas stations. There are four more. Oh - there's the food store. The local bar...etc." This is a really awesome concept. When she talks about those who "go" and hearing of them in "bits and pieces" her structure changes to quick bits and pieces. Those who "stay" are described to have longer nights, and the sentence structures seems to last a little longer and flow together. Her writing reflects her descriptions, something I would love to learn to do.

The One With Unagi

I'd like to pause for a moment and randomly rant about the title of my blog page. You have to read it...might as well know what it means, right?

For those of you that are Friends fans, you might understand. There's an episode called "The One With Unagi." There's lots going on in the episode, but my favorite bit is the storyline involving Ross, Phoebe and Rachel. Ross brings up a Japanese concept called "Unagi" or the "state of total awareness."

This video will explain more (and it's hilarious).

Basically, as we find out "Unagi" isn't a real thing (not the concept, at least - the salmon skin roll doesn't sound half bad) and I agree with that. I don't think it's possible to be totally aware of what's coming next - and that's how a lot of the best stories are formed. The stories that come out of left field are the ones that inspired me to try writing in the first place.

So there you go, now ya know. Okay, I'm going to go find some sushi for dinner. 

-Sam

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"Mexico's Children" Response

"When I was a boy it was still possible for Mexican farm workers to commute between the past and the future."

I love that opening line. I'm always stuck on the notion of a good opening hook. They're hard to find but ones like these make you want to keep going. Where is the author going with this? Also, the blatant criticism of the Mexicans' ways from the teacher was powerful. It makes me think that they were denied of proper education just because of the pattern of the Mexican lifestyle. I enjoyed the last scene of the father "slipping" away into America though it would have been a "betrayal." It's a interesting piece with lots of room for comparisons and new angles to study immigrants trying to start a new life.

Add-on: "8.50 & 6.50..."

I feel the smooth, cold surface on my face before I officially rest my eyes in the correct place. It’s a familiar feeling, one that I’ve been aware of since I was about four. I’m not even sure what this thing is called. Justin Timberlake recently made it look glamorous by wearing a suit while standing behind one like I am now. I’m smarter than that – I don’t find it glamorous at all.

After I slightly settle my neck to a less-uncomfortable position, I blink to clear the fuzziness. It doesn’t go away.

            “Okay, Samantha. Tell me which line you think is the clearest and read the letters to me,” says my long-time optometrist, Dr. Davis.

            I squint my eyes and stare at the square of light ahead of me with tiny dots on it. Is that a G or a D? Did it just change to an O?

“Honestly…” I hesitate, “barely even the top one.”

            She pauses. I hear scribbles on a notepad. I was right – I’m getting worse again. At the ripe age of twenty-two, my vision is blurring. The countdown (or countup, if you have my visionary genes) begins to seal my assumptions.

“One or two?”

“Two.”

“Two or three?”

“Three.”

“Three or four?”

“Four.”

“Four or five?”

“Five.”

“Five or six?”

I pause. I pretend I need to see the lens comparisons again. I don’t.

“Six.”

It’s a number game I’m not too fond of. I’m watching my eyes grow older as I stay here, needing them to keep it together. Needing them for late-night papers, relaxed readings, driving home for the weekend, appreciating my sisters dance routines, paint a picture, deciding what to wear. The list goes on.

 We continue until I have a new, clear view in front of me. LASIK eye surgery is surely not in my future now and as the examination that I have memorized concludes, Dr. Davis sighs my confirmation.

            She gets up and rounds the corner to a long hallway. “Pop out your contacts, I’ll get you new, much stronger ‘eyeballs.’”

            If only I was born with different ones in the first place.

Night Song Response

Night Song was a story that I was not expecting to have as much as an impact on me as it did. Since the age of four, I have had problems with my eyes. As I got older, they got worse. I would ask my doctor, "Will I go blind one day?" Most of the time I was joking, but sometimes I wondered what would happen if I did. At this point in my life, I'm pretty confident I won't, but this story makes me think that people who unfortunately lose their vision have their own view of the world. Kuusisto's use of sounds to create a scene are so powerful. It makes me happy that someone without vision still experience so much "color" in the world around them - even if it's created by noises. It also makes me think that he has come to terms with his blindness and, instead of being bitter about it, he makes the most of the senses he is fortunate to have. I really enjoyed this about him.

8.50 & 6.50 with a side of Astigmatism

I feel the smooth, cold surface on my face before I officially rest my eyes in the correct place. It’s a familiar feeling, one that I’ve been aware of since I was about four. I’m not even sure what this thing is called. Justin Timberlake recently made it look glamorous by wearing a suit while standing behind one like I am now. I’m smarter than that – I don’t find it glamorous at all.

            “Okay, Samantha. Tell me which line you is the clearest and read the letters to me,” says my long-time optometrist, Dr. Davis.

            I squint my eyes and start at the square of light ahead of me with tiny dots on it. “Honestly…” I hesitate, “barely even the top one.”

            As the examination that I basically have memorized continues, my suspicions of a blurrier vision are confirmed when Dr. Davis sighs.

            She gets up and rounds the corner to a long hallway. “Pop out your contacts, I’ll get you new, much stronger ‘eyeballs.’”

            If only I was born with different ones in the first place.