abigailnicole: (dreams)


"We get to thinking that there is no other happiness or good fortune in life except marriage; and it's offered in fiction as the highest premium for virtue, courage, beauty, learning, and saving human life. We all know it isn't. We know that in reality marriage is dog cheap, and anybody can have it for the asking--if he keeps asking enough people. By-and-by some fellow will wake up and see that a first-class story can be written from the anti-marriage point of view; and he'll begin with an engaged couple, and devote his novel to disengaging them, and rendering them separately happy ever after in the denouement. It will make his everlasting fortune."
-March, in William Howells' A Hazard of New Fortunes



I've been overcome with the desire to fill my life with beautiful things. This means reading lots of books, taking lots of pictures, texting my wives. I have this strange relationship with Amanda and Neil: I started reading both their blogs at the same time, and for a while it seemed like no matter what I was feeling Amanda managed to say something about it. But now I feel more like the plums and the honey, the cats and the words. what good is sitting alone in your room? But that's where I am now. Besides, I'm not alone in here, I have the whole internet coming with me.

Anyway, the upshot of all this is that I made bread, strawberry jam, tuna salad, chicken salad, regular salad, and spaghetti over the weekend. I'd love to go buy some yarn if the yarn shop weren't closed. Maybe it's the impending sense of fall--not weatherwise, I pool-lounged reading White Noise (review to follow) most of today, but school-wise. School equals fall. and school is catching up, books and plays to read, homologous chromosomes to organize, tests to study for, etc.

the water is pedal-deep so I'm hiding out in thel library. I'm at the beginnings of a head cold, the cotton-brain, phlegm-throat kind, I fell asleep at the beginning of Act V of A Midsummer Night's Dream last night with the light still on and tea getting cold and woke up at midnight to close my laptop and turn off the light. I woke up at 9 with the most vivid dreams that dissipated on sight. my life feels like a series of vignettes, waking up on the couch to sunset rubdown and a crick in my neck, waking up abruptly at rue de la course with a molecular biology book imprint on my face, not remembering falling asleep. A cocoon of oceanic bedding and waking up to Bottom's Dream. I woke up after a vivid dream about Jeopardy on ice, backwards jeopardy where the contestants fined the host and he came up with the right answer to get out of debt, but the host was neil patrick harris. all this was on one edge of a circular ice-skating rink.

I also have to get a new phone. Mine cuts off all calls arbitrarily at two to five minutes, takes three tries to send texts--also the port that the battery charger plugs into is stretched out to be a little too big for the charger, so it doesn't ever charge the battery properly. I could deal with all this if it would just text and call people correctly (the only things I do with my phone). I suppose a trip to the AT&T store is in order? I spent a lot of time on the phone with tech support for them to tell me I had a bad phone. any suggestions on what I should get for my new one?

I do believe I've spent more time writing this blog post than on my creative writing assignment. We all know where my true loyalties lie.

a sestina

Mar. 10th, 2010 11:00 pm
abigailnicole: (Default)

the sestina I wrote for hannah, using the words
organic, eyelash, science, windy, irritated, and waters.


Starting up the car. A thick, organic
smell in the air. I blink back an eyelash
"make a wish" my sister said. Superstition, not science.
The road home is dark and windy.
The road is rain-slick and I am irritated
watching the asphalt under the waters.

Last week my sister and I got ice cream and waters
scoops of vanilla and yellow-ripe bananas, organic.
The waiter got it wrong, cursing and irritated.
She thinks I didn't see the tear on her eyelash...
the air was chilled, she shivered in the windy
afternoon. She is dying slowly of science

But my sister was a great advocate of science--
biology, chemistry, test tubes in baths of water.
Late nights at the lab, leaving in the windy
darkness. She always trusted the organic
chemistry, the alkenes of vision, magic in an eyelash.
Her ability to see beauty in chemistry made me so irritated

I am not now. Watching her struggle, I am not irritated
with her chemotherapy, the betrayal of her science.
Losing her hair, her eyebrows, thinning eyelashes.
Her soul is buried in the rising waters
and all of the products, healing and organic
do not cure her melancholy, her voice thin and windy.

Now she is frail, emaciated, threatening on windy
days to blow away. I am still irritated,
upset, frustrated, powerless. All her organic
chemistry could not save her. Her science,
powerless as my mother's tears--empty waters.
My mother cries out her prayers, loses her eyelashes

but accomplishes nothing. My thick eyelashes,
shiny nails, healthy skin, robust, wind-
blown hair are wrong. I want to drown in these waters
just to rid myself of this guilt which irritates.
There is nothing I can do that science
cannot do for her. Her heart, frail and organic

fills up with waters, her eyelashes fall out.
Organic smells, earth and wind, become her.
I am no longer irritated. She moves beyond science, into belief.
abigailnicole: (death)
my stomach is too full of acid to sleep. 1 day late for halloween--

Lamb )
abigailnicole: (Default)


storming here.

Meanwhile, elsewhere....my boyfriend's house is being threatened by forest fires and my wife Amanda is recovering from a car accident. I am super worried, but everyone is super busy and NO ONE CAN TALK TO ME. I feel like a petulant child. There is nothing I can do but help my mother cook and waste time on the internet. Or crocheting. I am useless when people are in trouble.

this is probably just bringing to forefront other issues, which will be discussed, as always, in short story format whenever I finish it. I actually have two, The Color Of Our Planet From Far, Far Away and a dead Amanda Palmer story, involving a cannibal and possibly Johnny Truant. That one only exists in my purse.
abigailnicole: (Default)
some things I would like to do this week:
-smell nice
-laundry
-finish the Klein Bottle hat
-finish the VAMPY letter
-finish the other letters
-make special hot chocolate
-make tea
-play the ukulele and learn some more songs
-write some more on the blue hurricane house story.

this will eventually go with Blue Lips, the song, and if I get ambitious I will actually knit the scarf that one of the characters is knitting. Because I like blue, and I like knitting, and I like linking all my crafts together, and I just gave a panel on this stuff.

If anything important has happened in my absence, please let me know now. otherwise I will assume that, having caught up on the neil and amanda blogs, everything is fine and move on with my non-internet life.
abigailnicole: (death)
today it stormed, again, like it did yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. The tree-bending winds and ten pm sky, the rain in sheets so thick you can't see across the street, etc. Like it's been doing all summer.

did I tell you my next story which I started last night is about a series of hurricanes and a love triangle? I started it last night and it will incorporate:
  1. a light-up umbrella
  2. black button dress
  3. shoes
  4. a handkerchief
  5. blue scarf
  6. Far (in essence, not by name)
  7. rain
  8. an unmistakeable smell
  9. a ribcage
  10. a 1972 Mustang
  11. the pre-war apartment
  12. the post-war apartment
  13. blue rubber band
  14. the Bible
  15. a wallet
  16. and a hitchhiker.

I will compound a story from these things. Also I'm using names from Taming of the Shrew by accident because I can't name anyone or anything.

I have typewritten (as in, on a typewriter, as in not computerized) the first page of this and am sending it in the VAMPY notebook, by which point I'll probably have it done and posted online, but they will get a unique original. I may have accidentally turned into a New Orleans writer with the Delilah story and now this succession of hurricanes story. But really, it's just inspired by our constant weather and regina.

I am going out of town, starting tonight, and will be gone at an exclusive lakeside retreat for only the most talented writers where I will attend panels given by greats like Ernest and Flannery and John and then an afterparty hosted by Neil and Amanda, some pop culture with Stephen. Mark is expected to show up Saturday for a panel on experimental writing, and then I will speak on a panel talking about detail placement within stories and arts and crafts in a literary environment. I will be dressed as the Third Doctor and/or Death from Sandman. Expect no pictures, this is a top secret affair and you will never hear it spoken of again.
abigailnicole: (Default)
I sent this off to TWO betas two weeks ago and neither has returned it. (This started as my 2008 halloween story, by the way. it took me 9 months to write it.) SO HERE IT IS. the next installation in the Delilah house, a time-travelling extravaganza with love! loneliness! fires! children! and a brightly-colored air force! In roughly 13,000 words and two parts I give you...

Be Nice Or Leave: Part One )

Part 2
abigailnicole: (not envy)


in atlanta again. doing the lat night blog post thing from a different house. every time I spend the night in an unfamiliar place I want to write you all a post describing the experience, just in case it isn't repeated? I want to remember all the nights I spend in strange beds far from home.

today we drove through atlanta for two hours, in bumper to bumper traffic. in times like this the waiting is useless and there is no conversation and bad radio music. I think I alternately slept and listened to Repo, which set off a chain of events beginning with an insatiable urge to call Evian and sing: "I'M INFECTED---BY YOUR GENETICS!" into her voicemail (which I didn't do for fear she'd answer and there would be an awkward, 'I-wanted-your-voicemail' pause) and culminating in me listening to this soundtrack seven times. It...grows on you.

It's a love/hate movie, definitely, not something you can see and just say: "oh, okay, I appreciate this but not my thing" no. love/hate. and people either love it or hate it for the same reasons. I saw it and immediately said THIS COULD BE THE GREATEST MOVIE (about an organ repossession man and his daughter) THAT I HAVE EVER SEEN EVER. the qualifier is both necessary and unnecessary. It's really not the greatest movie ever. The plot is kind of hmm? the characters tyical, the concept a bit ridiculous. But the mere fact of its existence is so important, the fact that there are people out there who can write music like this and a story like this and the costumes! the settings! The mere fact that it exists, when it defies all the entertainment-weekly sanctioned laws of culture, is so, so, so important to me. It's not even close to Rocky Horror but yes, it is the same.

It comes down to alternative lifestyle. Let's get this straight: I am not...that. I didn't like liberal arts summer camp because it didn't make sense, the things they advocated and fought for so fervently, the people were fair-trade shoppers and vegan but their attitudes were still closeminded. I think I've said this before--they couldn't understand why anyone would ever have voted for Bush, which is just---foolish, I guess, I can't think of a better word. Why would you be that elitist in your thinking? You're cutting yourself off from experiencing all that diversity you're so big on. But at the same time I am not a right wing conservative anything, because that doesn't make sense either, for reasons all the people reading this blog already understand (as you are all liberals except JR). It is important, and on the whole I tend to think conservatism is the more prudent course of action when no solution readily presents itself. it's human nature: be cautious and proceed slowly, testing one variable at a time. this is all common sense stuff.

And there are certain traditions within that. I am big on personal responsibility. If you want to get married, get married, that's your choice and your decision, I don't really care. (this is...mostly my gay marriage stance, by the way. If you are gay and want to get married, fine, whatever. I understand that 'marriage' has a certain connotation associated with it, but if civil unions give you the same rights under a different name...? I know in many places they don't. But in both cases, we're arguing over....symbolic semantics. Marriage is a symbol, sure. But the symbol itself doesn't guarantee the relationship and having a guaranteed, long-lasting relationship between two consenting parties that is a healthy environment for both (or more) parties really is a marriage, regardless of what you want to call it or what the government says. really, less government control the better, and this is true for just about everything.) But I digress. damn, what was my original point.

anyway, my real, first original point was on the thought of the house.

If you read my delilah story--1522 St Joan Ave--then you know about the house idea, the Party house. Amanda started this story but it wasn't her idea. I have wanted to live in a giant house with all of my friends ever since I was eight years old. And I wrote that story as sort of a wish-fufillment for me, because I do want to live in a giant old house where it doesn't matter if Hannah draws pin-up girls on the bathroom walls or I write haikus across my ceiling. I have this idea that things don't have to be nice to be meaningful. Taking in cast-out things. Taking in an old abandoned house and making it beautiful by virtue of the love and effort you put into it, even if it's not conventional, even if it "degrades" it in society's eyes by lowering the property value or whatever. But LOVING it is important. RESPECT. I don't mind people sharing my house, my fridge, my dorm room---but I make the mistake of overestimating people, I assume that people respect their friends and their friends' property because I do. And that is why this wonderful house idea will not happen, not the way I want, not in the way I imagine it and in a way that's workable and will ever happen. Ideas differ. People...don't respect things. The pin-up girl in the bathroom would get a moustache scribbled on her, the haikus would be replaced by 'fuck's in true Holden Caufield fashion. And that, to have that dream of my...Utopian community, I suppose...ruined like that, by those kinds of people, is worse than never realizing that dream. Is it better to have a dream you know is impossible or try to realize it and have it ruined for you? It's why I'm letting the Delilah house live on in fiction only.

Houses are important to me. A house prompted this post, my uncle's house. House of Leaves, for that matter. Being at home in my own house makes me think about living space, about the arrangement of Objects in Space and color and how houses are just representations of things inside you. I like old houses with irregularly-sized doorframes and big locks and narrow stairs for the same reason I like getting hand-me down clothes: it is something old and already lived-in that someone else has loved and is used to being a home, used to being worn. It takes a bit of work but that's just a chance for you to put a piece of yourself in it, just like the people before you put a piece of themselves in it as well. This is human heritage and tradition being passed down via material objects.

that also could be why I journal and photograph and create so obsessively. my heritage passed on through material objects.

my journal for 2008 is almost done. I have 37 pages left in my notebook for this year. That is a lot of pages to fill in three days, but thirty-seven is my lucky number--it is my birthday, 03/07. and both numbers are fairly significant biblically speaking. also they are both prime, for that matter all three are prime. 3, 7, 37. If you would like to, I would like it if you have any quotes/poems/cartoons/things that you would suggest as a good 'end of 2008' finishing to this notebook.

then it's time to start anew on fresh pages with fresh pens. 2009, here we come.
abigailnicole: (books)


feeling vaguely sick, wearing nopants and all black

so I feel like I should tell you all about nopants friday. Here we have Nopants Friday, which is the one day of the week where you don't wear pants. You know the leggings that are so popular right now? Have you seen the girls who just wear leggings and a shirt? Because when we do, we look at each other and say: "That girl is not wearing pants. That girl is, in fact, wearing no pants." So we started calling leggings nopants. It's sort of complicated in that you can be not be wearing pants which is not the same thing as wearing nopants. And on Nopants Friday you can wear a skirt, a dress, nopants or any combination thereof. So since it is now 1am on Nopants Friday I am wearing nopants.

In the past twenty four hours I have slept at least ten of them
gone to class for two and a half
done homework for oh, three or four
been on the internet/wasting time for four or five
done laundry for three
the end. also I ate twice at 9:30 and 9:30.

My roommate is also feeling very sick, coughing and coughing, sometimes coughing up blood. We like to eat things that go bump in the night, like licorice and popcorn, but her boyfriend is coming in tomorrow so for now she is not eating anything...what a time to get sick. <3

My dystopian cruise ship adventure novel is still eating at my brain. Also I'm currently doing preliminary notes. The more I think about writing this the more excited I get. but I cannot do NaNoWriMo! not at at all. I do not have time and school is far more important. Please remind me of this so I don't go do something ridiculousy foolish like tell myself: "Oh, it's only 1667 words a day, I can do that in twenty minutes if I write fast..."
abigailnicole: (bad day)


I want to write for NaNo now. I had a great idea--
which I'm not going to talk about. don't jinx it, right? dystopian cruise ship adventure is all I'll say about that.

I just took two midol and have hmm ten trigonemtric substitution plus eight partial fractions integration problems and a quiz at 8am tomorrow. I have a test in chemistry-biology-calculus next week. my limbs are shaking and college is raping me but

I have a letter/poster/fortune from amanda and a letter from lindsey and some raw agave nectar (like honey made from cacti, it's nice) and seeduction bagels and my bed is tall. and tomorrow is laundry day, so things are not quite so much as they seem.
abigailnicole: (Default)
So my favorite people to work with are Stephen and Brittany. Stephen is a hypochondriac, self-described expert on everything who I love dearly and who never ceases to amuse me. Brittany is short (all the rest of the hostesses are a good foot shorter than me), bleach-blonde hair, and shares my love of Spongebob and Brand New. SHE IS NEVER SAD. I worked with both these people tonight. Friday I close with Brittany and tonight I drove Stephen and this new guy Chris home, which was an adventure because Stephen goes: "Town is this way" and it was THE OTHER WAY and we drove all the way out PAST Melissa's house and it was crazy and he got us lost and it was fun.

So I got home and decided to cut up watermelon. At ten pm. What I had for dinner was chicken soup from work and watermelon. nom nom nom. And then I was like...giant dance party! so here's my weird one-person late-night party music. It's very short, it consists of two songs:

1. Middle of Nowhere - Hot Hot Heat
2. Knock Em Out - Lily Allen

YES, WASN'T THAT GREAT?! O MAN.

I don't know. I say that a lot these days. I don't know. It's true, whatever it is. I am tired of apologizing because I don't know what to say! My new years resolution is to quit doing that. I will say snarky things instead. and write something. hahahahahahaha oh writing, that's funny

a haiku:

i was a small bear
you caught me in a steel trap
and took all my fur.


I'M KNITTING  A SWEATER OMG. And the whole reason I'm making it is because the pattern is called Mrs. Darcy OMG THE CUTE. THIS SWEATER REEKS CUTE and half of it is the name.

I'm listening to the Across the Universe soundtrack and IT MAKES ME HAPPY. It also reminds me that the music was much better than other elements of the film, like, for example, the plot. but it was pretty and sad.

I read franny and zooey and I quite liked it. it was pretty and sad.

these people, these people, they are me:



I have never known the likes of this. I've been alone and I have missed things and kept out of sight...but other girls were never quite like this.


maybe I am missing out on the fun things. I don't think so. I watch Spongebob a lot, it's on Nickelodeon for hours and hours every day in the summer and I just leave it on and knit, or leave it on and internet, or leave it on and walk around. Sometimes I watch it. That's gotta count for something fun. Sometimes I go shopping or spend money or eat (not very often, now, since it's summer), or sleep without moving all night long, like I did last night. It was wonderful. Between all these terrible dreams I have, then I go and have nights like last night, where I didn't move a single bit and it was cold and warm and wonderful. Maybe it's the TIP thing again, where when it's hot I'm destined to go crawl in the bathroom in boxers and a tank top, sitting in the window with my legs sticking out on the roof, not sleeping all the time.

Meeting all these people has made me realize how uncool I am. I am pretty uncool; you know this. I'm a Trekkie and I knit and I don't drink or smoke or do drugs or anything. I cannot paint like Hannah nor know every movie ever made like Amanda; I do not have an immense knowledge of musicals or can sing them all like Jodi; I do not know and have never seen Talladega Nights like Brittany, nor can I speak in accents and recite Hamlet like Elizabeth. I cannot play the guitar, which everyone can do, nor can I play any sort of sports. But I read a lot of books, and I'm relatively fast on the up-take. Let's get our good qualities straight, here. let's make sure we have some.

crazy landmine girl. I could be crazy landmine girl if you happened to have a black hat somewhere around.
abigailnicole: (not envy)
some things.

In my excessive but not enjoyable freetime I've been doing too much of this browsing LJ nonsense. and I love it. I keep clicking around on random journals and I downloaded someone's playlist called 'china rust patterns' and I've listened to it five times now. I really wish I remembered where I found it so I could go thank that person, but I...have no idea. It was late. also I was looking for iron man icons and got sucked into a new fandom. this happens to everyone,  I swear. o man. why. speaking of fandom:

fics )


speaking of the playlist thing. I made a playlist at 1:36am last night called 1:36am june 11th 2008, and if anyone wants a copy I'll do something cool and upload it with art and stuff. it sounds very much like songs you'd listen to at 1:36 am on june 11th, 2008 by yourself in the dark. since I'm going LJ-cut happy, here it is:


I also wrote


I've also been writing in my journal. A lot. My giant map-of-the-world journal. I wrote two pages of an essay called "The Difficulties and Necessities of Modern-Day Pirating" taking a look at the reasons, causes, necessity of, and proper tools for, modern day piracy, but then stopped in the middle of a sentence talking about the role and importance of a "ship" and how the perception of "ships" can and should change for the modern-day pirate. It was pretty strange. But I liked it.

I also keep thinking about Evolution. Evolution and the Internet. At what point does technology become part of natural selection? Why have as humans developed a collective consciousness that doesn't really exist? It only exists in our interconnectivity. I'm thinking about writing an essay called Darwin and the Internet or maybe more something like Darwin vs Steve Jobs, but I might just save it for college when it will be useful. Since I'm attending Starfleet Academy and all.

I also got six inches of my hair cut off.

also it has been 100 degrees here, which is very hot. I've been reading Marvel's Civil War comics. Between that and my Trekker status and my knitting I have no cool points left. It's okay. ..I embrace it. 

and finally some pictures from summer.
pictures )
abigailnicole: (Default)
I have a cold. Beh.

also if anyone has any kimya dawson they want to upload for me, I'd love you forever and stuff.


abigailnicole: (Default)
I've been home sick all day from school.

Chapter 3: Secret Happenings )
abigailnicole: (Default)
The Daniel Johnson Chronicles: Good News

abigailnicole: (Default)
The Daniel Johnson Chronicles
Chapter 1: The Island

For a while, time didn't mean anything.

Daniel didn't know how long he'd been on the island. He'd drawn lines in the sand, the first few weeks, but then given those up in despair. The sand all looked the same, anyway. The days followed the nights, one after another in slow succession that didn't seem to mean anything. He did routine things, to keep himself busy. Set traps. Check the traps. Clean his gun. He had six shots left and every day he emptied them out, laid them out carefully on the rock next to him, dissected and wiped down the inside of the gun, put it all back together again. Sometimes he thought about putting the barrel to his forehead and pressing the trigger lightly, just once. It would only take one bullet. But he never even put the cold ring of metal to his skin. Daniel put the gun back together and put it back into its hiding place, wedged between a crack in the rock, with a rock over the opening so no snakes or squirrels could get inside. His gun was really the only thing he had left.

His shoes had worn away. His shaggy blonde hair now reached to his eyes, the tips brushing the outside of his eyelids if it was windy. It was often windy on the island, the breezes blowing his hair in his face--he'd never had to worry about his hair in his face before. Not before. The island had cliffs, too, which he climbed with skill even on his first days, but now knew by heart, like the back of his hand. All the nooks and crannies he knew were safe, which ones were dangerous, which ones could be seen from the sea. Most of the time when Daniel thought, it was about the sea.

He tried not to think too much. He'd thought a lot, the first few weeks. Those days were crowded with thoughts, with anguish and despair and continuous bursts of joy and hatred as he thought of new plans, only to have them foiled on further reflection. He thought he was going to go crazy with thinking. He picked constantly at the scar on his arm, wondering if it was still in there, or if they got it all out. Deep in the back of his mind, he knew they got it all out, that the only reason he was still alive was because they'd gotten the microchip out of his arm. Watson had probably thought it funny to leave him on the Island. Make him go crazy. Well, it'd worked, at least at first. He'd gone crazy every day, in and out and in and out, pacing and climbing, putting air-help signs in the sand and on the rocks. SOS. SOS. SOS.

Now Daniel didn't think. He went through the motions. Every day, he made a fire, checked the traps, re-set the traps, checked the lines, re-set the lines, checked the air-signals. Every week, or as near as he could gauge, he cleaned the cave he slept in, made new traps and lines, cut more wood for the fire. These motions were empty. Daniel didn't think, not about Anna, not about Dr. Douglas, not about AH73, not about the missions, not about Watson or the microchip in his arm. He scratched his scar, sometimes, but there was nothing he could do now, nothing but wait.

It was like that that Fibrizia found him.

He was kneeling on the beach, checking the lines again, when he heard the telling sound of a helicopter. He didn't stand up but couldn't stop the rise of hope in his heart, lonely and broken. When the black dot came into the horizon, Daniel stood up, hardly aware of his own actions. As the dot grew larger, he started running down the beach, his tanned, muscular legs pumping. He was screaming, but he didn't know it. The helicopter circled around and landed on the sand, blades still pumping. When Fibrizia stepped out, dressed in black, cool and collected, Daniel thought she was a mirage. He ran at her and grabbed her, wrapped his arms around her and pushed her back against the helicopter, unable to believe she was real.

"Daniel!" she was yelling. "God Daniel Johnson, you're alive, fucking christ you're alive--do you know--"

"Fibrizia," he shouted, not listening to her in the least. "Fibrizia, oh god, you--we have to--Watson got--"

"We know," she said, pushing him back. "Daniel, we're getting you out of here. But first--did Watson leave you anything? When he dropped you here? We need it, we think--"

"I know," he said, his brain flashing with clarity and alertness he hadn't felt in weeks, months. "I know, what it is, wait--" and without saying anything else he ran across the beach, tearing across the sand with the wind from the helicopter throwing up clouds of dust. He was back before the blades were still, clutching the gun to his chest. "This, he left it--we've got to get back--"

"We're going," she said, grabbing both his hands, but by that time he was kissing her, both of them halfway inside the helicopter. He didn't love her. He hadn't seen Fibrizia in months. But she was the only human being in this limited window of existance, and she had come to rescue him.

"Come on," she said, pulling away, pulling him inside the helicopter. "We're going back."

The helicopter took off. The island underneath settled, slowly, dust clouds settling back into sand. Eventually, the lines snapped, the traps broke in two, the cave grew back with weeds.

But Daniel Johnson didn't count the days, anymore.
abigailnicole: (Default)

Pay the piper, who takes them away, to whom you owe so much

 

 

When I was young, middle-school age, I went through a talk-on-the-phone all night period. When you're young you tend to do such things, you are foolish enough to think that you can talk for that long, buried between your blankets with the warmth of the voice on the other end of the telephone--oh! to be so young. After these late night conversations I'd venture out to return the phone to its cradle. Sometimes I'd find my dad there, lying on the couch in the living room, curled up in a chair, the blue light of the television flickering across his face. It wasn't anything terribly bad. My mother slept all night; my father didn't, and when he was awake he'd get up, leave her in bed and occupy himself until he could go to sleep. My grandfather did the same thing.

There's a sense of desolation in the early hours of the morning. Not the party early hours of the morning, when the world is fuzzy and brightly colored--no, this is the early-morning when you are alone, and things are quiet, and shadows are shadows and there's nothing out there but yourself and colored pictures, the whole wide world. Tired? I slept so often, then, I didn't need to sleep anymore. Don't you wish you could be as young and as passionate as you were back then, that you could be as happy, even as sad? Now I have watched them roll their lives up in high heels and revolving doors, throw themselves into desks and empty television screens. There is some great feeling of desolation that comes over you, in the night, when you are so afraid of being alone that you turn on the television to keep you company.

The Captain was like that, in a way.

The problem was that she preyed on your doubts. She was so good with children, so, so very good with children. Her daycare overflowed. Children under her took up music, reading, maths, sciences, and excelled. She turned out prodigies at a shocking rate, while somehow escaping the label herself. She had a certain type of children she took on: forgotten children of busy parents. The children you saw at school, two hours after it had let out, waiting for their parents, patiently doing their homework in the little corner out of the wind. Children of parents who loved their jobs, who were prestigious, ambitious. It was like she wanted to fill the void in their lives, wanted to become their parents and care about them like their real parents never did...and she did. She was better at it than they were.

I've worked daycares. I love children, all the children, and that's why I know these things. Parents do not give love to children; they receive it, also. They need it, need acceptance and respect and admiration from their children. The Captain said, without ever saying anything, that this is their weakness: their need to be given love in return. The Captain, you see, never needed to be given love in return. She gave, and gave, and gave, and gave, and the children ate it up. They reflected it back at her, of course, but she was like a mirror who just focused everything back on you. She was never physical with her discipline. She never hit, or slapped, or spanked. The Captain would deal with tantrums by removing them. She would take the rest of the children from the room and turn the lights out, lock the door, and check back on the child every ten minutes until they were calm, giving them a final ten minutes to calm down. Children emerged from that dark room crying, clinging to her knees, apologizing, promising to practice their piano or read their lesson or never fight again. When she started a school from her daycare it filled up immediately, with parents not daring to question the ridiculous price tag. She called it St. John's School for Young Children. They called it Genius School.

She started taking them on trips, eventually.

She was a pilot, Class A-air-certified. She put on the leather cap and goggles and boots and red scarf and took them up on planes, short day trips to the zoo, always with permission slips and me, her desk girl, as an accomplice, as a witness. She would instruct as she flew. And even though she was occupied, no children ever became rowdy, every stood up or became unruly on these trips. They listened like angels--behaved, like angels.

Tuesday the twenty second of January I was out sick. She had a strict no sickness-policy, because with kids these things spread like wildfire. Hand sanitizer at every door. Tuesday the twenty-second of January I lay in bed all day, eyes swollen and puffy, nose dripping, a slow, inexorable trickle that sapped my strength, my senses. I laid in bed with CNN on, all day, dozing in and out of consciousness. I should have called the school, at three thirty, to check on the children and the Captain, but I slept on through.

At three thirty on the twenty-second of January parents stopped at St. John's School For Young Children, the Genius School, stepped inside its red front door to the coat rack where, this morning, had hung twenty-three tiny coats, twenty-three little backpacks, forty-six pairs of shoes. They stepped into the red front door to find a no coats on hooks, no backpacks, no shoes. There were no containers of hand sanitizer in the rooms, no crayon portraits on walls, no little pianos or books, no bookshelves or couches or beanbags or Captain's old rocking chair, no coat-tree of red capes and silly hats for storytime. My receptionist's desk was gone, the blue rolling chair and roster of names gone with it. One roll of toilet paper remained in the bathroom. Light fixtures had been taken away, leaving only bare bulbs. In one closet, a discarded ballpoint pen lurked in the shadow. In the middle of the floor was a white notecard, bearing the letters EMS in thick black lettering...but that, that was all.

The Captain had last been seen walking the children, coats and backpacks in tow, to the airport where her little plane was, where they'd been many times before. All the little shoeprints led there, forty-six tiny sneakers, with Dora the Explorer and Spiderman and Spongebob Squarepants and Transformers, all found carefully tied to the chain-link fence at the airport. The plane was gone. The children were gone. The Captain was gone.

The parents were saddened, heartbroken, angry, despairing, horrified. A search was put out, for the little plane, circling the skies, and the hope in the parents' eyes was that it was at the zoo, that the Captain had just forgotten, that this time, her faint little smile and long curly hair would reappear with their children, entrusted for so long to someone else's love. In a way, it was her they were waiting for, hoping for, hoping that this angel of judgment they'd come to rely on would come back, decree them innocent, free them of their worry and their guilt. A day passed. I was questioned, repeatedly, my story told so many times I could recite it from memory. The parents cornered me, demanded answers, but I had none. What did EMS mean? Why was the daycare empty? Where were their children? Where, where, oh where were their children?

gone, I thought, like the rats.

They moved out of the city. the city is not a nice place to raise children, they said, their faces dark, and they should have known, they should have known...they walked away looking angry but you didn't see the shame in their faces, like I did, the shame and the fear, the guilt that this was something they deserved, something they were secretly hoping they would happen; that someone would come who loved their children more than they did, would take them away. It wasn't a great surprise when someone finally did.

I did not say this to anyone. I went home and sat on my bed, staring blankly at the report on CNN, the picture of the rows of shoes. I sat there until it was all dark around me, until the flickering of the television was the only light on my face, and waited until even that turned off.

Then the Captain came for me, too.

abigailnicole: (Default)
Last night I stayed up till two in the morning (eastern time, I was on central time) playing Mexican Train Dominoes. ie, the People's Domino Train of Mexico. I won, by the way. Not only won but dominated, by the amazing score of seventy five when everyone else had over 200 in eight games.

This weekend I went to KY lake to see the Schmidts (mom's family). It was really awkward but fun. It got less awkward over Dominoes, but I still felt kind of awkward. My cousin's wife is pregnant, awwww. She has a five-year-old who's really cute too. I got a lunchbox and earrings.

The only problem is that the drive to the house is five hours, and so is the drive back. I listened to the St. Vincent CD (good) and read a Bill Bryson book, and wrote on a story. I discovered Thursday night on the internet all the stories that I wrote when I was young, one in particular about spies and assassains and aliens and age-gap love affairs and it was all exciting, so I wanted to write it again. And I am. momentarily. I might never show it to anyone, though. But that's what I wrote on.

So now it's midnight (tomorrow) and I have to wake up for school in six hours. Goodnight!
abigailnicole: (not envy)
The past few days I've gotten the urge to write again something fierce. Just to put something down with words about how things are. Fake people with real feelings. It's like getting some free time made me sit back and realize all the things that have been going on and now I need to write about it. I'm glad I'm doing [personal profile] embodiment next year because it'll be GOOD! Writing every day is so motivating. GSA--that was the best part of GSA, writing so much. I filled up an entire Mead one-subject notebook in three weeks, do you know how crazy-great that was? and even though at the time it was painful, it was beautiful and alive and perfect. I'm getting together with Monica Sat. (maybe) to go to selet poivre and write HURRAY. no kidding love forever.

Good thing: This past week I've typed up most of the written part of the Trashy Romance Novel. I'm about to get to the part where I got stuck writing it on paper, and that's when I give it to Amanda and she'll write/type on it and then I'll get it back and actually figure out what the hell we're doing. Writing a book together is great.

pluck up the courage and--snap
it's gone again
I start humming When Doves Cry
can someone help me, I think that I'm lost here


the bad thing about a laptop is that you never leave your room. I usually am all over the upstairs with all the lights on and doors open, and now I haven't left my room in three hours. or more. more. doing nothing makes me tired, so far today I fixed my iPod with laptop, ate two sandwiches, did yoga, flist. nothing else. endless monotony of nights and days all mixing together because you do the same things during both--that makes sense, I think. how in the summer you're asleep half the night and half the day and then there's no real way to keep time because you just work whenever you're awake. same things every day. play piano, write, eat, check flist, yoga. read. go out with the boyfriend somedays but it's the same then. be somewhere, be somewhere else. iTunes is giving me bad songs interspersed with Tori Amos so underneath the shade of a peppermint tree she can turn it out with a hero, she just rides into town knowing what they'll say, knowing they're around the corner

I don't seem to make much sense. being on break is bad for me, apparently, when I'm not workaholicing it up I'm waxing incoherent on my blog. time for another cup of tea to improve my status as a sentient being. It's an equation. Organism + n-tea = n-sencience(Organism).


and since we're down
might as well stay
might as well fry some eggs



typing up the trashy romance novel. do I say agnes' or agnes's? so far I keep doing the latter. It's very trashy without any actual sex as of yet. can't wait to get around to that just to break the monotony of descriptions of frail, shaking frames and Lucinda's soft, uncaring, crystalline voice and long dark/red/pale hair spread across the pillow like shadow/fire/light, well-defined arm muscles/leg muscles that give lines of power to their movements/poses/actions.

the killers' new cd is not as good as their old cd I hope you all know. I just said Thomas Cook sat astride a wide white hoarse as a cod wind blew through the field. Sage Francis makes me happy becuase it's that fast, indechiperable rap I love. take it or leave it if it's that hip-hop "Yeah" "uh" "baby" crap. I want wordsmithing. I'm a psychic without a sidekick holding the future hostage

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Nicole

March 2013

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