The Photograph Album

Last night I resurrected a short story that I had started writing in April or May but then stopped once finals came around. Anyway, this is hardly finished, it's just my own response to last night's post. Comments/suggestions are warmly welcomed.

The Photograph Album
The olive green curtains in the living room were dingy and faded. She had never noticed that before. How long had they been hanging there? Twenty years? More? If her memory served her – and it often didn’t – she bought them from Sears and Roebuck around the time that Carter came into office. Adelaide frowned at the curtains hanging dejectedly before a grimy window. Those curtains – those damn curtains. She could remember what they looked like when they were brand new, the thick fabric thick and slightly crisp, George scolding her for spending frivolously when the old curtains would do just fine. Yes, she remembered now, she bought them shortly after she and George moved into this tiny apartment so many years ago, and they hung there when George died (was that seven years ago already?), they hung there on her first day of retirement. Adelaide brought a hand up to her cheek (ignore the tremors) as she gazed out the window, as the words formed stubbornly in her head. When did she get so old?
The yelp of a puppy and the laughter of children trickled up through the cool April air from a park across the street. Adelaide gingerly fingered the hem of the curtain, the material now soft and slightly dusty as she watched the children play four stories below her. With a sniff she turned from the window and surveyed her cramped apartment, the afghan tossed over the back of the under-stuffed sofa, the old Christmas cards piled on the bookshelf, the dinner table buried under old books, magazines and ancient photograph albums. She reached over and switched on the table lamp (was it Tiffany, like George always insisted?), because even in the brightest summer days, this room always stayed dark. It’s more of a cave than a living room, she remembered complaining to George. So he bought her the brass lamp. Adelaide relished the warm yellow glow of the lamp that filled the room as she settled in a chair at the dining table, the tan cushion wheezing under her shifting weight.
Gently pushing a pile of envelopes aside (bills, subscription notices from National Geographic, a check from social security… how much would she get this month? It was never enough.), she extracted one of the albums from the pile and set it before her. The cover was finely grained crimson leather, with the word “Album” scrawled pretentiously across the middle in an elaborate gold-tinted script. Adelaide touched the worn corner of the album, the leather thin from years of rubbing along a shelf, then opened the cover as it creaked stiffly from disuse (how long have these bits of her past been collecting dust on her bookshelves?).
The pages were thick paper that at one time had been white, but were now yellow deepening to brown at the ragged edges. All the photographs were black and white, but Adelaide never noticed the plain color scheme, the unskilled photography, the grainy quality of the images. The pictures awoke memories that lain dormant for far too long, memories that made the still images come alive (and bring the dead back to life, if only for a moment).
George smiled brightly out of the first photograph, his horn-rimmed glasses perched merrily his slightly crooked nose. His hair was still thick and dark, although (she inspected closely) his receding hairline was just beginning to show. In his lap, a plump baby offered a double-toothed smile at the camera as he clutched a ball that the cocker spaniel puppy was trying to pull from his grasp. How old was Jonathan in that picture, two? Three? Before Jon and his younger sisters had gone off to high school and then college, she could place the age of a child to the month. But it was so long ago, she had lost that ability without even realizing it. She remembered the nickname George had given him – Jonny Two Tooth – and she smiled gently at the child’s gummy and exuberant expression.
“Take the picture, Adelaide!” George laughed. “He’s not staying here much longer.” Jonathan squirmed in his arms and chortled at the puppy’s attempts to take his ball. He put two pudgy fingers in his mouth and gripped the ball harder with the other hand, his socked feet kicking happily.
“Look here, Jonny!” Adelaide chirruped, waving her fingers in front of her baby’s face. He looked up for a moment, his eyes shining with life. She clicked the shutter and captured their happiness on Kodak film. Jonny’s eyes widened and blinked at the sudden flash, his lower lip shining with a bead of drool that threatened to drip onto George’s wrist. The puppy growled playfully and tugged again at the ball, and Jonathan wriggled from his father’s grasp to pull on the dog’s ear.
“Be nice to Peanut, dear,” she said gently, but too late. The dog nipped at the boy’s pudgy wrist, who responded by collapsing into a heap of yelps and tears on the floor. The dog scampered off as George scooped his son off the floor and tickled him until he smiled again. George lifted the boy above his head, tossed him up gently and caught him again, making Jonathan shriek with laughter. “Stop, darling. You shouldn’t do that to him.” Adelaide said nervously.
“He might get hurt,” she whispered, her finger tracing the edge of the picture. One corner was starting to lift off the page, and she pressed it back down with her thumb. The tea kettle whistled. She had forgotten that she put it on the stove. Sighing, she pushed her hands on the surface of the table and slowly rose to her feet. The kettle’s whistle dissolved into a frantic scream, and Adelaide grumbled as she shuffled into her tiny kitchen, “I’m coming, I’m coming, almost there….” She switched off the burner with a snap and poured the steaming water into her favorite mug, given to her by a student when she taught third grade at Sunnyvale Elementary ages ago. As the aroma of oranges and cloves wafted into the air, Adelaide carried the mug back to the dining room table and slowly sat down in her chair....

stress? in the middle of the summer? whaaa..?

I’m supposed to be working on my thesis all summer, but I can’t seem to find the inspiration to get started. I’ve watched a few movies, made a few paltry notes, but it just doesn’t seem to be even beginning to roll. I don’t know if it’s the magnitude of the project, or the fact that I don’t know what I’m doing with feminist criticism because I’ve never done anything like that before… or maybe it’s the sense I’m getting that I’m not going to be breaking any new ground with this. That all of this has been done before. That maybe I should have chosen to look at documentaries or film noir or something else. Is there anything coherent that I can say about these films that someone hasn’t said already? Smith expects me to have a thesis by the end of the summer – a most basic step in writing a paper, an idea to build upon, a point to argue. And I don’t know what it could possibly be. Or even if I can get one by August.
I feel like I have too much to do. I have to research grad schools (scary thought!! how am I ever going to finance two or three years at someplace like NYU?), prepare for the GRE, research for my thesis (tons of reading/movie watching/notetaking/writing), work 7 hours 15 minutes a day, give a tour a week or so, do whatever maid of honor stuff I’ll need to do, and work on my portfolio of creative writing for grad school applications. Because I have nothing near what I’ll need to submit – I’ve never written anything near 30 pages! I suck at life. Writing is supposed to be my greatest love, something that makes me ME and yet I don’t do it anymore. Sure, I can write a research paper or an essay on a novel with basically no problem... But creative writing – it seems that my ideas aren’t worthwhile. So I get frustrated and give up. Way to be, Suzi.

Fa fa...

When you look in the mirror, wish you were somebody else
Just a perfect reflection, you and no one else
Minutes run into hours, hours run into days
You're still waiting for someone who never ever came
Fa Fa-Fa Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa
Never be the same again
Fa Fa-Fa Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa
Never be the same again
You were always saying something, you swear you'd never say again
You were always saying something, you swear you'd never say again
Fa Fa-Fa Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa
Never be the same again
Fa Fa-Fa Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa
Never be the same again
Go and run through the hallways, and find your way to the door
You will end up like always, back where you were before
Can you look in the mirror, wish you were somebody else
But it's still your reflection, you and no one else
You were always saying something, you swear you'd never say again
You were always saying something, you swear you'd never say again
Fa Fa-Fa Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa
Never be the same again
Fa Fa-Fa Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa
Never be the same again
No matter where you go, you'll never find your way home
You'll never find your way home no matter where you go
You were always saying something, you swear you'd never say again
You were always saying something, you swear you'd never say again
Fa Fa-Fa Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa
Never be the same again
Fa Fa-Fa Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa
Never be the same again
--Guster


:-D

the summer's heating up...

luckily we've had air conditioning installed in our room. because i have "allergies" -- sometimes it's useful to be allergic to all sorts of pollen.

i'm also allergic to dogs and cats, but did that stop me from spending 15 minutes in a pet store yesterday, petting every little fuzzer in there? hells no. sure i was sneezing, but it was totally worth it. there was this hyperactive little ball of white fluff with a puppy tongue on one end and a waggy tail on the other, practically jumping out of his clear plastic pen. fluffer came with a good set of teeth, but i liked him anyway. he had a tendancy to launch himself at his jack russell neighbor, but seeing as they were in separate pens, he kept bouncing off the plastic wall. silly puppy. i also met some nice rabbits - they like to sit on top of each other - and some adorable tiny kittens. two identical greys and a black that all meowed quietly and liked me to pet them. and a bitty little ball of fuzz, a very sad kitten that needed lots of love. it broke my heart to see her there, i almost bought her.

i wasn't in the mall just to go to the pet store and pet the animals (although, i have been known to do that..) - i bought shoes for Carrie's wedding (maid of honor -- woot!) and also lingerie for her bachelorette party. buying a slinky (but not too slinky) nightie for my big sister was a bit weird, but after much shuffling through a rainbow of silk and lace, i settled on a little pink number. not that you care. mission accomplished - i bolted out of there.

i went to the movies with a guy this weekend, named George. How we met is of little importance. the important thing is that we had a good time together, and it was comfortable. so we'll see where this goes - i think we're off to a good start, anyway.

so this coming weekend is carrie's bachelorette party, it should be lots of fun. and it's 4th of july weekend, and we have a party to go to with family friends... we never have big 4th of july parties so i'm excited.

i saw on msnbc.com today that a u.s. marine has been captured by iraqi militants, and they're threatening to kill him. i almost cried when i read it -- how many people have to die in this damn war?

Day 1

I gave birth to a blog today. either this makes me very trendy or just a big dork.


for the literary minded: today is bloomsday. james joyce fans around the world are uniting in literary fervors to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the day in which the astoundingly-difficult-to-read-yet-nontheless-highly-regarded novel known as Ulysses takes place. pass the guinness.