The Twilight Zone

“You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension - a dimension of sound, a dimension of sight, a dimension of mind. You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You've just crossed over into the Twilight Zone,” this is what the narrator says at the beginning of the Twilight Zone.

Sometimes I wonder if he’s narrating my life.

If he is, I’d like a word with him.

Summers Child

Mmhm. That's right. I reverted back to days of old. Summer's Child is returned. A new address will accompany it soon.

A Piece of Myself

The most daring paper I have yet written was nearly three years ago.

Professor S-- changed my life. Literally. In one semester his empathetic, vigorous way of teaching reopened a part of myself that I thought closed. Discussions of Frankle’s, Man’s Search for Meaning brought new insight to my own life’s challenges, which in the scheme of things (and in comparison) were nothing. When time came to write an overview of what we learned from the book and class, words came to me in such a way that I could not write it down fast enough; I could not type fast enough.

The last day of class Professor S-- requested to speak to me in private.

“Your paper,” he told me frankly, “was beautiful. You nailed it….”

I was suppose to smile about this, but I couldn’t. Instead my eyes were burning, and I could feel the pit of my stomach. Somehow I managed a meek, “Thank you very much.”

“I understand,” he said, “the wounds are fresh.”

We talked for nearly an hour about the context of my paper. In the end, he requested to use it (anonymously) for future classes, which I readily agreed to.

It is an quiet part of myself I have given.

Today I wonder what people think as Professor S-- reads my paper aloud. I wonder which of them, too, has felt the droning motion of the merry-go-round, the dictation of the chalk mask. I wonder if in some small way my words will let them know they aren’t alone. I wonder if they will ever know that it is okay to heal. Most of all, I wonder if they know that it is okay to be vulnerable-- that it’s okay to give life a chance.

The French had written in their papers, “Today we are all Americans.”

I had turned eighteen a few months previous of September 11th. It was my Freshmen year of college; my first time away from home; my first taste of real freedom. No more curfew. No more nag, nag, nag about getting homework done. I could play my music as loud as I wanted. I could stay up until the crack of dawn if I so pleased. I could do all the things that I couldn’t do at home.

That morning I had drug myself, zombie-eyed, out of bed. My roommate, who had left an hour earlier, had kept her alarm clock screaming to push me along. Somehow, I trudged into the living room where my other roommate was paralyzed in front of the television. I thought she was watching some action thriller, but it only took a moment to realize that this wasn’t any movie.

Drowsiness melted as gooseflesh mounted my arms. My stomach curled, and I slumped down beside my roommate.

“A plane…” was all she could muster.

We watched in horror, as only moments later, the second plane crashed.

My hand caught my mouth, and I turned my face away.

The rest of the day was chaos. Classes were canceled. Wherever a television was the news was on. Wherever a radio sat the news sounded. Peoples’ faces were distorted with confusion, anger, pain, and sorrow.

I didn’t know what to think.

That night I sat alone on the front steps. It was a clear night. I could see all the constellations, but didn’t know how to point any out. New York’s sky wouldn’t be clear. It would be foggy and black and still rummaging through bedlam.

I rubbed at my chin and bowed my head.

It was my Freshman year of college; my first time away from home-- and I suddenly realized…

I had no clue what freedom was.

The Unexpected Life

One day on my mission my companion and I were driving home for lunch. The car rolled to a stop at a red light. We waited patiently for our turn to drive again, discussing the current situation with an investigator, when (out of the blue) a man crossing the street leaped onto the hood of our car like Spider Man. He proceeded by marching up our windshield, over the top of the car, down the back, and hopped down onto the sidewalk to go his merry way.

He was very nonchalant, but you can only imagine the stunned silence that ensued on our part.

Life is exactly like this situation. It leaps unexpectedly; it throws real curve balls sometimes, and is often very nonchalant about the whole matter.

In the end, my companion and I laughed. It gave us a good story to tell.

That, too, is like life. Sometimes we can look back at the unexpected and laugh. And if we can’t laugh, at least we have a story to tell.

Ramble

Today I reviewed my applications for a semester in England.

Today, more than ever, I am pining to go.

The program is an intricate course on creative writing. A semester in England, all classes directed on my favorite subject, Stratford Upon Avon, a hopeless devotion to falling in love with British slang-- what more can I ask for? * smirk* Colin Firth…?

I miss Europe.

I finished blowing up a photograph taken on top of the Duomo, and am having it framed so I can hang it in my room above the Venetian masks. Halloween is coming quick, and I am thinking of having a How to Host a Murder party…just so I have reason enough to use one of my pretty masks and dress up.

Other than this, my complete rambling, I am busy busy busy with work. What free time I have, my attention is given to continuous work on my writing. Am in much love with the main character, and more in love with the villain!

I love when my writing takes on a life of its own. I know I’m headed in the right direction when it does that, and am often surprised by the development of my characters. They begin to mold themselves, and sometimes I feel I’m not working at all.

"Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about the universe." - Albert Einstein

Answers

Two posts down I wrote about how God answers prayers.

And He does.

Sometimes the answer is subtle.

...On the other hand, sometimes the answer to a prayer is like a slap in the face.