It's been over a month since I've posted in here and while I have a slew of posts in draft form I haven't had the time nor energy to revise them. I've been reminded, way too much lately, life is fleeting, so I decided to re-post an entry from "Life With Baby Mikki" on February 14, 2012 .
Rewind
In college, I remember an assignment for one of my journalism classes that I wasn't too thrilled about doing. I had loved certain aspects associated with the course of study but others, not so much. I loved writing the feel-good pieces but hated the "other" stuff.
I enjoyed observing the people, watching their demeanor. I enjoyed listening to them, taking in every single word. I enjoyed taking notes and I'd add my own thoughts in the side column so I'd remember how I perceived the subjects comments and their reactions to my questions. My annotation at times vast - I even devised my own form of shorthand so I could get it all down on the paper. It worked out quite well.
I always dreaded the personal one-on-one interviews and I think it showed. I was always told I was ingratiating and to use that to my favor but I forever was stumbling over my words, always nervous about speaking. That has not changed.
I just wanted to be the fly on the wall, to take it all in and yet not be seen, to be obscure. I'd become too involved in the story, too emotional. The separation of my feelings with the subject matter was hard for me and I wore it on my sleeve. That was the demise in furthering my ambitions in the field. Heck, I cry at Hallmark commercials, even to attempt to kill a spider is hard for me and I'll often let it go its merry little way.
And then writing, it was never one of my stronger attributes. I failed English miserably, which it has always shown but through the years I've kept it up anyway. I even have a manuscript I had started that I work on every once in awhile. When I get in one of my moods I pull it up and start writing. It sometimes helps take my mind off of things, things I don't want to think about. I had it open the other night, it's words spread across the screen but I got distracted and left it while I took care of my diversion. That's kind of ludicrous when you think about it. It hadn't done what I had hoped anyway.
When I came back I found my 8 year old in front of my computer. Her eyes intently fixated on the screen and on the words I had typed. Thank goodness there was nothing written of impropriety on that one page. When I asked her what she was doing, with her eyes still steadfast she raised her index finger to me as to say, give me a minute. No one has ever laid eyes on this work, not even small segments of the prose that fill the ever growing script I get lost in sometimes for what seems like for hours. Not even a synopsis of it. Nothing.
I reached over and closed the screen down onto the keyboard. When she looked up, the words that came out of her mouth I couldn't tell if they were an observation or a question, or maybe it was a combination of both. "Realistic fiction."
She continued, saying it (realistic fiction) was something like a book she had read, "Out Of My Mind." I chuckled not only at her perception of the content on the screen but because that's exactly how I have been feeling lately - out of my mind.
I asked what the book was about and she started to tell me she thought she remembered it was about a girl with a disability and the challenges she faced and how she thought it reminded her of me. She hesitated and said "I think it's fiction, but it could very well be true." I asked why it reminded her of me and who the author was. She stopped for a moment and thought and then told me "Just Google it". Google it? Really? So I did, but the only thing that came up were songs from Duran Duran, John Mayer, James Blunt and Colbie Caillat so I went into the Barnes and Noble website and read the editorial review and honestly, at that moment, after listening to the lyrical verses of the songs and then reading the review of the book, I wanted to pick up the computer and throw it across the room.
My assignment I had trouble with all those years back had entered my head. It wasn't a difficult task remembering, considering. I recall when the assignment was posted feeling the dread penetrate and pierce through my heart. It wasn't because I had to interview someone, if we had a choice between that or the given assignment I would have taken the interview.
Write two obituaries, one being your own. It had to hold the truths of the individuals life.
I enjoyed observing the people, watching their demeanor. I enjoyed listening to them, taking in every single word. I enjoyed taking notes and I'd add my own thoughts in the side column so I'd remember how I perceived the subjects comments and their reactions to my questions. My annotation at times vast - I even devised my own form of shorthand so I could get it all down on the paper. It worked out quite well.
I always dreaded the personal one-on-one interviews and I think it showed. I was always told I was ingratiating and to use that to my favor but I forever was stumbling over my words, always nervous about speaking. That has not changed.
I just wanted to be the fly on the wall, to take it all in and yet not be seen, to be obscure. I'd become too involved in the story, too emotional. The separation of my feelings with the subject matter was hard for me and I wore it on my sleeve. That was the demise in furthering my ambitions in the field. Heck, I cry at Hallmark commercials, even to attempt to kill a spider is hard for me and I'll often let it go its merry little way.
And then writing, it was never one of my stronger attributes. I failed English miserably, which it has always shown but through the years I've kept it up anyway. I even have a manuscript I had started that I work on every once in awhile. When I get in one of my moods I pull it up and start writing. It sometimes helps take my mind off of things, things I don't want to think about. I had it open the other night, it's words spread across the screen but I got distracted and left it while I took care of my diversion. That's kind of ludicrous when you think about it. It hadn't done what I had hoped anyway.
When I came back I found my 8 year old in front of my computer. Her eyes intently fixated on the screen and on the words I had typed. Thank goodness there was nothing written of impropriety on that one page. When I asked her what she was doing, with her eyes still steadfast she raised her index finger to me as to say, give me a minute. No one has ever laid eyes on this work, not even small segments of the prose that fill the ever growing script I get lost in sometimes for what seems like for hours. Not even a synopsis of it. Nothing.
I reached over and closed the screen down onto the keyboard. When she looked up, the words that came out of her mouth I couldn't tell if they were an observation or a question, or maybe it was a combination of both. "Realistic fiction."
She continued, saying it (realistic fiction) was something like a book she had read, "Out Of My Mind." I chuckled not only at her perception of the content on the screen but because that's exactly how I have been feeling lately - out of my mind.
I asked what the book was about and she started to tell me she thought she remembered it was about a girl with a disability and the challenges she faced and how she thought it reminded her of me. She hesitated and said "I think it's fiction, but it could very well be true." I asked why it reminded her of me and who the author was. She stopped for a moment and thought and then told me "Just Google it". Google it? Really? So I did, but the only thing that came up were songs from Duran Duran, John Mayer, James Blunt and Colbie Caillat so I went into the Barnes and Noble website and read the editorial review and honestly, at that moment, after listening to the lyrical verses of the songs and then reading the review of the book, I wanted to pick up the computer and throw it across the room.
My assignment I had trouble with all those years back had entered my head. It wasn't a difficult task remembering, considering. I recall when the assignment was posted feeling the dread penetrate and pierce through my heart. It wasn't because I had to interview someone, if we had a choice between that or the given assignment I would have taken the interview.
Write two obituaries, one being your own. It had to hold the truths of the individuals life.
All my life I've had to deal with death in some form or another, as we all do. Whether it be a spectator on the sidelines, watching the spirit drain from its bodily home in both those I cared about or strangers I hardly knew, or experiencing it firsthand, even coming too close to the inevitable myself more than I care to remember. The most difficult time for me was watching a child take his last breath and me only a child myself watching it unfold before my eyes. No, this was not an assignment I cared to even think about.
I had scrolled through my phone to my downloaded game apps earlier. Hanging with Friends staring up at me and I opened it. The home screen popped up, I immediately saw -- Your Turn: Hanging with Player 2, and I tapped on it. A little speech balloon then popped up and read 'Tap play to guess player 2's mystery word .'
I had scrolled through my phone to my downloaded game apps earlier. Hanging with Friends staring up at me and I opened it. The home screen popped up, I immediately saw -- Your Turn: Hanging with Player 2, and I tapped on it. A little speech balloon then popped up and read 'Tap play to guess player 2's mystery word .'
I had friended this little old man at my treatments, both of us there for the same reason and since there was not much to do as we sat there we had started playing this downloaded game on my phone.
I hesitated knowing even if I solved the secret word he would no longer be sitting next to me to guess mine. I continued anyway, I needed to know what his last word to me was. On the screen in front of me it showed - " ? A ? ? ? ".
One by one the letters appeared, F-A-I-T-H and all I could think of was his words to me every time we exchanged our pleasantries, "Everything will work out the way it should, the way God has planned it."
And I remembered how difficult it was to write those obituaries back in college, but his, the man who sat by my side rubbing my arm when I'd feel the sting and nauseousness, it would be effortless.
And if I could pass my phone to him one more time, use whatever letters I wanted, it would spell out, F-R-I-E-N-D.
Subtle coincidental occurrences? Maybe I do think too much, but then, maybe we should all stop and listen.
One by one the letters appeared, F-A-I-T-H and all I could think of was his words to me every time we exchanged our pleasantries, "Everything will work out the way it should, the way God has planned it."
And I remembered how difficult it was to write those obituaries back in college, but his, the man who sat by my side rubbing my arm when I'd feel the sting and nauseousness, it would be effortless.
And if I could pass my phone to him one more time, use whatever letters I wanted, it would spell out, F-R-I-E-N-D.
Subtle coincidental occurrences? Maybe I do think too much, but then, maybe we should all stop and listen.
