Course Evaluation/Reflection
1. Meeting course objectives
Course objectives
Learn to recognize and use strategies & conventions commonly found in cnf including: reflection, segmentation, narrative voice, use of scenes, dialog, character development, and detailed description, movement between the subject at hand and a personal, reflective perspective focused on a concept
Develop an invention process based in writing
Develop/extend revising process
Explore different forms for CNF
Questions:
What did you learn in this course?
I learned a few things in this course, with one being about myself. I learned about a form of writing that I thought was non-existent. At first, it wasn’t quite comprehensible, but as time progressed, It became clear. The second thing I learned was that I have the potential, with enough practice and time to become a good writer
About the form of CNF?
I learned that the form on CNF is a genre of writing truth using literary styles to create factually accurate narratives. For a text to be considered creative nonfiction, it must be factually accurate, and written with attention to style and technique. Ultimately.
What did you learn about how to write CNF?
The form of CNF is very unique, and based upon the short stories that we read, can be written in different forms, take for example, the story “out there”
About where to publish/find publishing venues for your creative writing?
Upon looking at the different publication venues, I learned that there are plenty of different styles with different objectives to each writing based on what the publication asks for
Did you change anything /try anything different in your writing process? Please describe.
Nothing out the ordinary from trying to meet the expectation of writing my essays to a CNF standard
Which class assignments/class experiences helped you learn whatever you learned?
Essay 4: writing about a place. It taught, and made me realize that my past experiences could be the reason why I cannot let go of that place.
What do you wish the course spent more time on?
Elaborating on the definition of CNF
What do you wish we'd spent less time on?
The MONOPOLY STORY….GRRRRR
2. Structure of course/assignments
Assignements
Blogs
readings
writing journal
writing assignments
exploration of publication venues
Questions:
Right pace/schedule?
Both of the pace and the schedule were fine in the beginning, but felt as if the whole world came down towards the ending of the course. A lot of work with what felt like little to no time
Coherence of material?
the material was very coherent, keeping a balanced dose of essays that were written in a CNF format
Workload => Too much, too little, just right? What would you change?
The workload was not too much, it was actually just right. I just feel as if it should have been evenly spread out more. As I said earlier, I felt like the whole world came down on me during the end with all the writting
Cover material appropriate to course goals?
Yes, In my opinion, it was just right
Enough feedback for grades?
Yes, more than sufficient feedback to change any paper from a D to an A
3. Provisions for feedback/grades
Forms of evaluation + feedback
comments/grades for blogs
comments from classmates
reading aloud from journals + class discussion
conferences with professor on papers
group work with classmates on papers
written feedback/grades on papers
reflective writing about your work (in you journal, on your blog)
Questions:
Which form of feedback was most helpful?
Both physical, and email were very helpful when it came to making corrections to a paper, but if I had to choose one, it would have to be the conferences. It made things clearer as far as what you were looking for because I had a chance to see facial expressions when making certain points
Which did you enjoy most?
The conferences
Any which you felt was unproductive?>
Neither
What would you do more of?
Write the essays better from a reader’s perspective and make sure everything is clarified
What would you do less of?
Nothing
Did you feel the grading system was fair?
yes
Did the grades/grading system contribute to learning?
If Im reading the question properly, my answer would have to be no
4. General response
Is there anything you could tell me that would help me teach a better/more engaging course?
I am not trying to brownnose, or earn brownie points by saying this, but I believe you did everything just right.
Anything you want to say about your experience of the course?
I never knew I had the potential, based on your comments, to write such moving essays. It was the BEST English class ive taken to date.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Irreplaceable Blog # 23
I don’t know how to suitably pioneer this, so I’m just going to begin writing. Growing up in Nigeria, all the way up to my current days as a young adult, Ive been forced to say goodbye to the things I cherished. My first puppy was taken from me because my landlord did not want any pets. My intangible relationship with my brother was also robbed from me, except it was taken over a period of time. My pit-bull pup named pickles was also amongst the things I was forced to say goodbye to, my power ranger action figure, and my first bicycle, but all of these- with time, have gradually but surely become just a mere thought as beloved as they were to me. All of these items/things except for one thing that I cant seem to let go of. It was on the corner of Colonia Boulevard and Saint George in Rahway. Till this day I still go bye and sit outside of it more often than I should for it no longer belongs to me, reminiscing and thinking.
It was not the largest, but it was definitely amongst the prettiest on the whole street. It was sky blue in color, with white shutters that complemented the blue oh so gracefully; Almost made it seem like there was a little piece of the heavens here on earth. A vast driveway and a big backyard were some of the things that I miss about this place. In the backyard was a set of swings and an over the ground pool where there were various cookouts and pool parties with friends and family. In the second part of the driveway was where I had my first huffy basketball rim, and believe it or not, my brother and I assembled it. Funny thing about the rim, my dear and beloved mother bought it for my brother and I, but in order to keep peace, and prevent any type of altercation, she had to say my father bought it for us…what type of man was he??, but that’s neither here nor there. It was on that rim that was put up in the driveway that I learned to dunk, and eventually broke the rim..silly old me.
The neighborhood was peaceful, friendly and quiet with the biggest ruckus, as much as I hate to this, coming from us, mainly from that guy called my father. Nothing in this world is perfect, and he epitomized that statement. My home was the one thing that besides my siblings and mother was very dear to me and also cherished. In all the comfort, safety and happiness I found in my home, my father was the constant reminder that its still just a house. A home is where you feel completely comfortable, while a house, in my perspective, is just a place of shelter. His presence turned my home into a house. Every waking moment with him in the house made me outcast myself to the “play-room” as you get to read later on. He stood against everything a home represented,- wanted no peace, family moments, laughter, nothing of that nature. Everything that brought even the slightest smile across anyone’s face was frowned upon, while he was present in the house that is. He was the ultimate asshole; finding pleasure in our misery. He would eventually due to his actions, the way he treated us, and the eventual loss of my home, seal his fate with me. I found myself beginning to hate him with no way of going back
Loretta was not just a neighbor, but also a friend, a caring one at that. One plenty occasions, she was the one who took the initiative to dial 911 on behalf of my mother as her scream for help traveled through the air to nearest ears that were open. Her and her husband were the friendliest older couple I have ever met. I can’t completely remember the name of her husband so well call him Lorettas husband for now, but Loretta, was a sweetheart. Every holiday, including those nationally celebrated and those that weren’t, we were always trading gifts and wine bottles. by the age of 18, I must have tasted about 25 different types of wine from all corners of the world. And that is not an exaggeration. She opened my eyes and taste buds to Italian food, as we opened hers to Nigerian cuisine also, not to mention, she was gardener, and a great one at that. On frequent occasions, she would bring freshly grown tomatoes and peppers over to us in abundant amounts, and boy, if you cook often, you would be instantly notice that something tasted fresh. During the early days of spring of every spring that I knew Lorettas husband, we would always sit on the chair on his front yard and talk about how shitty the Knicks were, debating and placing friendly wagers that the knicks would have a worse record than the preceding season next season. Ironic thing is that we were both die hard knick fans..its quite funny looking back at those days now and I would give almost anything to have those days/neighbors back, which is part of the reason why I cant let this place go.
Inside was three rooms an attic and a play room, which was my favorite part of the house. The playroom, though not the biggest space in the world, but decent in size was where I spent almost all, if not all of my time. It composed of a TV and a kick ass sound system temporarily erased our worries at the time away. We had what was then, the hottest gaming console on the market, a Sony play station 2, a computer, a couch that was just incredibly comfortable, and finally, the most comfortable carpet I ever lay my feet on. Everyday after school, my first stop was the dual door refrigerator to grab a drink, and then off to the playroom to do my homework as I listened to music. Followed by an infinite amount of hours in front of the TV, watching nickelodeon. That room was my getaway from the problems I had to endure cause of that man. That room was also the room where I introduced my first major girlfriend to my mother and the rest of my family, the same room where my father slapped me across my face, the same room where I learned how to do the “heel toe” which was a popular dance at the time. The room that had numerous of my drawings across the whole room as if there was a holiday that designated picture to be hung up like Christmas decorations do. My personal dinning room, and room, though it was a play room, but more than normal, I found myself waking up on the couch during the wee hours of the morning, only to drag myself in a zombie type method to my room, which I shared with my brother.
My sister’s room was right next to the playroom, and boy, was it obvious to tell whose room that was. Barbie dolls everywhere, mix matched colorful shoes all over the place, dresses, skinny jeans, and hair tie things. She was not your normal 13-year-old, but in the best of ways. Bro, can you please help me put this picture on my wall, bro can u help me fix my window, it wont close. The silly rabbit had forgotten she had put the lock on when she opened it. Cant complain though because I loved helping her in any way I could, but I couldn’t figure out if I especially did not care because it was my beloved sister I was helping, or if it was because I just loved being helpful around the house.
Me and my brothers room is next, it was about 16 x 16 in size and was obviously obvious whose room it belonged to just by approaching the door and looking at the sign that was drawn and pasted on the back of the door. “no girls allowed, please knock” in reference to my sister. It was childish if you ask me, but had to be done for my sister had a nasty habit of just barging in the room unannounced or without knocking. The drawings flowed from the walls of the playroom down to the room. Pictures that were drawn of me and my brother, favorite NBA players, cars I loved and would love to own someday were other types of pictures that were on display throughout the room. My bed was on the right and his was on the left. He got what I wanted as I love sleeping by the window. The room had a perfect view to the outside world, but I had to go on to my brothers side of the room to see the outside world, which more than often, got on his nerves.
The living room, was just that, a living room. Though rarely occupied, it was still beautiful. It had fluffy red wall-to-wall carpeting, a huge fireplace, and white walls with dashes of pink. A huge sliding door that led to the backyard, but at the same token gave a view of Lorettas backyard also. Black leather couches, and a surround sound system that had a lot of “HMPH”. The living room was the second thing that you walked into upon entering the house- the kitchen was the first. The living room was where my sister had her major first party, and boy did it turn out good. She had about 30 of her friends over, and it was like running our own chuck e cheese for the day. The one song that I cant seem to forget playing that whole day is by jimmy eat world, and the name was “the middle.” Me and my sister literally grabbed two remote controlls and started singing to each other like some American idol rejects,-
It just takes some time,
little girl, you're in the middle of the ride.
Everything, everything will be just fine,
Everything, everything will be alright. (alright)
Everyone crowded around us and cheered us on.. wow, good ol’ days. That is one particular moment in my life that I will forever be grateful for and also glad I had a chance to experience. As much as I loved this place, it was taken from me within the blink of an eye.
"Ring ring", “is Mr Akinyemi home?”, “no he is not, how can I help you” I replied, “well, my name is Mathew Pavlushkin, and im here to inform you that the new owners will be moving in 3 weeks” “WHAT?!?!?, you cant be serious I replied shocked and hurt. “Yes I am sir, please make sure you deliver the message, have a good day”
He replied in a such a way that in comparison to the coldest day of the coldest winter, it was summer. My so-called father had sold the house without our knowledge, leaving me, my mother, brother and sister to find a house within that time frame. I was shocked, offended, sickened, heated, poignant, aggravated, full of rage, disappointed, and lastly robbed. I never thought the day would come when I had to say goodbye to it. I was in shock for about a week, grief for the second, and tears all through out the third. A piece of me was taken from me. It is fair to say that materialistic things can be replaced or bought back. I beg to differ, memories I had in that house cannot be paid for, or bought, and I know, it was a memory, and as long as I have it, its mine to keep, but for some reason, getting forced to move out doesn’t make it the same anymore. Those memories don’t have as much “BANG” as they could potentially have if we didn’t have to pack up and leave.
As we see, animals and humans are not the only things that people can get emotionally attached to. It can be places, things, smells, or even pictures; for me, 70 Colonia boulevard, Rahway NJ 07065 is the address that was. As said earlier, it wasn't the biggest of houses, but adequate enough. A place where tears were shed, bonds created, and believe it or not, love actually found. I find myself driving by this house almost every day, as I only seem to remember the good memories whenever I drive by. On occasion, i actually drive out of the way to get a glance, with the most recent visit being today on my way home from work. Stopping to think of the holidays we shared there, and having the best neighbor one could ask for, trading gifts and bottles of wine every thanksgiving and Christmas, and just having someone to relax with on warm spring afternoons. Most people have a difficult time with loosing things that have life, such as people, or animals, but i seem to be having the most difficult time saying a final goodbye to Colonia Boulevard. I cant exactly say why, whether it be because we’ve had such terrible luck with houses and neighbors both in our recent searches, or maybe the manner in which we had to leave the house.. i can only laugh at that situation now, but that is not the one at hand. I just cant seem to find the strength to say a final goodbye, but writing this might have helped me understand why i cant say goodbye to it, and why i keep going back to it more than often. Nothing has changed, still blue as ever with the white shutters, and the white with gold trimmed storm door. It is as if it is waiting for me, being loyal, and telling me that it will always be there. I was robbed of something that meant to so much to me. They say everything happens for a reason, and that when one door closes, numerous ones open. HA!, till tomorrow, im still waiting for my reason to be forced to say goodbye, striving to make sense of why things had to end the way they did, and I definitely don’t want another door to open, except for one exception; the doors to 70 Colonia Boulevard
It was not the largest, but it was definitely amongst the prettiest on the whole street. It was sky blue in color, with white shutters that complemented the blue oh so gracefully; Almost made it seem like there was a little piece of the heavens here on earth. A vast driveway and a big backyard were some of the things that I miss about this place. In the backyard was a set of swings and an over the ground pool where there were various cookouts and pool parties with friends and family. In the second part of the driveway was where I had my first huffy basketball rim, and believe it or not, my brother and I assembled it. Funny thing about the rim, my dear and beloved mother bought it for my brother and I, but in order to keep peace, and prevent any type of altercation, she had to say my father bought it for us…what type of man was he??, but that’s neither here nor there. It was on that rim that was put up in the driveway that I learned to dunk, and eventually broke the rim..silly old me.
The neighborhood was peaceful, friendly and quiet with the biggest ruckus, as much as I hate to this, coming from us, mainly from that guy called my father. Nothing in this world is perfect, and he epitomized that statement. My home was the one thing that besides my siblings and mother was very dear to me and also cherished. In all the comfort, safety and happiness I found in my home, my father was the constant reminder that its still just a house. A home is where you feel completely comfortable, while a house, in my perspective, is just a place of shelter. His presence turned my home into a house. Every waking moment with him in the house made me outcast myself to the “play-room” as you get to read later on. He stood against everything a home represented,- wanted no peace, family moments, laughter, nothing of that nature. Everything that brought even the slightest smile across anyone’s face was frowned upon, while he was present in the house that is. He was the ultimate asshole; finding pleasure in our misery. He would eventually due to his actions, the way he treated us, and the eventual loss of my home, seal his fate with me. I found myself beginning to hate him with no way of going back
Loretta was not just a neighbor, but also a friend, a caring one at that. One plenty occasions, she was the one who took the initiative to dial 911 on behalf of my mother as her scream for help traveled through the air to nearest ears that were open. Her and her husband were the friendliest older couple I have ever met. I can’t completely remember the name of her husband so well call him Lorettas husband for now, but Loretta, was a sweetheart. Every holiday, including those nationally celebrated and those that weren’t, we were always trading gifts and wine bottles. by the age of 18, I must have tasted about 25 different types of wine from all corners of the world. And that is not an exaggeration. She opened my eyes and taste buds to Italian food, as we opened hers to Nigerian cuisine also, not to mention, she was gardener, and a great one at that. On frequent occasions, she would bring freshly grown tomatoes and peppers over to us in abundant amounts, and boy, if you cook often, you would be instantly notice that something tasted fresh. During the early days of spring of every spring that I knew Lorettas husband, we would always sit on the chair on his front yard and talk about how shitty the Knicks were, debating and placing friendly wagers that the knicks would have a worse record than the preceding season next season. Ironic thing is that we were both die hard knick fans..its quite funny looking back at those days now and I would give almost anything to have those days/neighbors back, which is part of the reason why I cant let this place go.
Inside was three rooms an attic and a play room, which was my favorite part of the house. The playroom, though not the biggest space in the world, but decent in size was where I spent almost all, if not all of my time. It composed of a TV and a kick ass sound system temporarily erased our worries at the time away. We had what was then, the hottest gaming console on the market, a Sony play station 2, a computer, a couch that was just incredibly comfortable, and finally, the most comfortable carpet I ever lay my feet on. Everyday after school, my first stop was the dual door refrigerator to grab a drink, and then off to the playroom to do my homework as I listened to music. Followed by an infinite amount of hours in front of the TV, watching nickelodeon. That room was my getaway from the problems I had to endure cause of that man. That room was also the room where I introduced my first major girlfriend to my mother and the rest of my family, the same room where my father slapped me across my face, the same room where I learned how to do the “heel toe” which was a popular dance at the time. The room that had numerous of my drawings across the whole room as if there was a holiday that designated picture to be hung up like Christmas decorations do. My personal dinning room, and room, though it was a play room, but more than normal, I found myself waking up on the couch during the wee hours of the morning, only to drag myself in a zombie type method to my room, which I shared with my brother.
My sister’s room was right next to the playroom, and boy, was it obvious to tell whose room that was. Barbie dolls everywhere, mix matched colorful shoes all over the place, dresses, skinny jeans, and hair tie things. She was not your normal 13-year-old, but in the best of ways. Bro, can you please help me put this picture on my wall, bro can u help me fix my window, it wont close. The silly rabbit had forgotten she had put the lock on when she opened it. Cant complain though because I loved helping her in any way I could, but I couldn’t figure out if I especially did not care because it was my beloved sister I was helping, or if it was because I just loved being helpful around the house.
Me and my brothers room is next, it was about 16 x 16 in size and was obviously obvious whose room it belonged to just by approaching the door and looking at the sign that was drawn and pasted on the back of the door. “no girls allowed, please knock” in reference to my sister. It was childish if you ask me, but had to be done for my sister had a nasty habit of just barging in the room unannounced or without knocking. The drawings flowed from the walls of the playroom down to the room. Pictures that were drawn of me and my brother, favorite NBA players, cars I loved and would love to own someday were other types of pictures that were on display throughout the room. My bed was on the right and his was on the left. He got what I wanted as I love sleeping by the window. The room had a perfect view to the outside world, but I had to go on to my brothers side of the room to see the outside world, which more than often, got on his nerves.
The living room, was just that, a living room. Though rarely occupied, it was still beautiful. It had fluffy red wall-to-wall carpeting, a huge fireplace, and white walls with dashes of pink. A huge sliding door that led to the backyard, but at the same token gave a view of Lorettas backyard also. Black leather couches, and a surround sound system that had a lot of “HMPH”. The living room was the second thing that you walked into upon entering the house- the kitchen was the first. The living room was where my sister had her major first party, and boy did it turn out good. She had about 30 of her friends over, and it was like running our own chuck e cheese for the day. The one song that I cant seem to forget playing that whole day is by jimmy eat world, and the name was “the middle.” Me and my sister literally grabbed two remote controlls and started singing to each other like some American idol rejects,-
It just takes some time,
little girl, you're in the middle of the ride.
Everything, everything will be just fine,
Everything, everything will be alright. (alright)
Everyone crowded around us and cheered us on.. wow, good ol’ days. That is one particular moment in my life that I will forever be grateful for and also glad I had a chance to experience. As much as I loved this place, it was taken from me within the blink of an eye.
"Ring ring", “is Mr Akinyemi home?”, “no he is not, how can I help you” I replied, “well, my name is Mathew Pavlushkin, and im here to inform you that the new owners will be moving in 3 weeks” “WHAT?!?!?, you cant be serious I replied shocked and hurt. “Yes I am sir, please make sure you deliver the message, have a good day”
He replied in a such a way that in comparison to the coldest day of the coldest winter, it was summer. My so-called father had sold the house without our knowledge, leaving me, my mother, brother and sister to find a house within that time frame. I was shocked, offended, sickened, heated, poignant, aggravated, full of rage, disappointed, and lastly robbed. I never thought the day would come when I had to say goodbye to it. I was in shock for about a week, grief for the second, and tears all through out the third. A piece of me was taken from me. It is fair to say that materialistic things can be replaced or bought back. I beg to differ, memories I had in that house cannot be paid for, or bought, and I know, it was a memory, and as long as I have it, its mine to keep, but for some reason, getting forced to move out doesn’t make it the same anymore. Those memories don’t have as much “BANG” as they could potentially have if we didn’t have to pack up and leave.
As we see, animals and humans are not the only things that people can get emotionally attached to. It can be places, things, smells, or even pictures; for me, 70 Colonia boulevard, Rahway NJ 07065 is the address that was. As said earlier, it wasn't the biggest of houses, but adequate enough. A place where tears were shed, bonds created, and believe it or not, love actually found. I find myself driving by this house almost every day, as I only seem to remember the good memories whenever I drive by. On occasion, i actually drive out of the way to get a glance, with the most recent visit being today on my way home from work. Stopping to think of the holidays we shared there, and having the best neighbor one could ask for, trading gifts and bottles of wine every thanksgiving and Christmas, and just having someone to relax with on warm spring afternoons. Most people have a difficult time with loosing things that have life, such as people, or animals, but i seem to be having the most difficult time saying a final goodbye to Colonia Boulevard. I cant exactly say why, whether it be because we’ve had such terrible luck with houses and neighbors both in our recent searches, or maybe the manner in which we had to leave the house.. i can only laugh at that situation now, but that is not the one at hand. I just cant seem to find the strength to say a final goodbye, but writing this might have helped me understand why i cant say goodbye to it, and why i keep going back to it more than often. Nothing has changed, still blue as ever with the white shutters, and the white with gold trimmed storm door. It is as if it is waiting for me, being loyal, and telling me that it will always be there. I was robbed of something that meant to so much to me. They say everything happens for a reason, and that when one door closes, numerous ones open. HA!, till tomorrow, im still waiting for my reason to be forced to say goodbye, striving to make sense of why things had to end the way they did, and I definitely don’t want another door to open, except for one exception; the doors to 70 Colonia Boulevard
Monday, December 7, 2009
Blog #22
Who We Are
NIDUS
Board of Editors
Don Strange
Managing Editor
Karin Lin-Greenberg
Fiction Editor
Jonathan Loucks
Poetry Editor
Heather McEntarfer
Creative Nonfiction
Editor
Marshall Warfield
Art Editor
Nidus accepts submissions of poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction, with a 5000 word limit year-round and simultaneous submissions are acceptable, but in that scenario, would prefer to know if the piece of work has been accepted elsewhere.
Nidus was my choice for my presentation, and by definition, is a" breeding place; a place where something originates, develops or is located". Their journal strives to be a foundation and core for talented writers and judicious readers where the works of both established and up-and-coming writers are featuredAfter re-reading my first essay about my brother and i, noticed a few similarities between my essay, and those that were accepted in Nidus. In the creative non-fiction essay, "catch Scratch Fever" found in NIdus, it is a story about two brothers, though, not related by blood, but rather than by marriage. Carl in this particular story would represent me differently then, and now. Towards the end of the story, the main character saw the woods as the genesis in realizing that life could end at any moment. his care for life began in the woods when he almost had his head blown to smithereens by a shotgun. My beginning point would be at my boarding school in which i attended with my brother who was my best friend. This particular cursed ground would be where my uncaring attitude towards my brother would begin. Years of friendship washed away within what seemed like the blink of an eye
NIDUS
Board of Editors
Don Strange
Managing Editor
Karin Lin-Greenberg
Fiction Editor
Jonathan Loucks
Poetry Editor
Heather McEntarfer
Creative Nonfiction
Editor
Marshall Warfield
Art Editor
Nidus accepts submissions of poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction, with a 5000 word limit year-round and simultaneous submissions are acceptable, but in that scenario, would prefer to know if the piece of work has been accepted elsewhere.
Nidus was my choice for my presentation, and by definition, is a" breeding place; a place where something originates, develops or is located". Their journal strives to be a foundation and core for talented writers and judicious readers where the works of both established and up-and-coming writers are featuredAfter re-reading my first essay about my brother and i, noticed a few similarities between my essay, and those that were accepted in Nidus. In the creative non-fiction essay, "catch Scratch Fever" found in NIdus, it is a story about two brothers, though, not related by blood, but rather than by marriage. Carl in this particular story would represent me differently then, and now. Towards the end of the story, the main character saw the woods as the genesis in realizing that life could end at any moment. his care for life began in the woods when he almost had his head blown to smithereens by a shotgun. My beginning point would be at my boarding school in which i attended with my brother who was my best friend. This particular cursed ground would be where my uncaring attitude towards my brother would begin. Years of friendship washed away within what seemed like the blink of an eye
Monday, November 30, 2009
Blog 21, supposed to be 20
My essay of choice revision will be my 4th essay. It is very hard saying goodbye, or letting go of something/someone, especially when you are forced to. Growing up in Nigeria, all the way up to my current days as a young adult, Ive been forced to say goodbye to the things i cherished. My first puppy was taken from me because my landlord did not want any pets. My relationship with my brother was also robbed from me, except it was taken over a period of time, My play-room was also taken from me and the most recent being pickles. With everything stated, i never had a choice or say in what i wanted to do. I forced to say goodbye to it all. I catch myself reminiscing about what ive lost when the situation, or topic is brought to hand, but with Colonia boulevard, i go out of my way to see what was once mine. could it be because it is the only thing that can be physically seen now??
Monday, November 23, 2009
Blog #20
I don’t know how to suitably pioneer this, so I’m just going to begin writing. I’ve had a lot of things in life that I held extremely close to my heart as most people can say they have also. From a pit-bull pup named pickles, to the blue power ranger action figure, to my first bicycle, but all of these- with time, have gradually but surely become just a mere thought as beloved as they were to me. All of these items/things except for one thing that I cant seem to let go of. It was on the corner of Colonia Boulevard and Saint George in Rahway. Till this day I still go bye and sit outside of it more often than I should for it no longer belongs to me, reminiscing and thinking.
It was not the largest, but it was definitely amongst the prettiest on the whole street. It was sky blue in color, with white shutters that complemented the blue oh so gracefully; Almost made it seem like there was a little piece of the heavens here on earth. A vast driveway and a big backyard were some of the things that I miss about this place. In the backyard was a set of swings and an over the ground pool where there were various cookouts and pool parties with friends and family. In the second part of the driveway was where I had my first huffy basketball rim, and believe it or not, my brother and I assembled it. Funny thing about the rim, my dear and beloved mother bought it for my brother and I, but in order to keep peace, and prevent any type of altercation, she had to say my father bought it for us…what type of man was he??, but that’s neither here nor there. It was on that rim that was put up in the driveway that I learned to dunk, and eventually broke the rim..silly old me.
The neighborhood was peaceful, friendly and quiet with the biggest ruckus, as much as I hate to this, coming from us, mainly from that guy called my father. Loretta was not just a neighbor, but also a friend, a caring one at that. One plenty occasions, she was the one who took the initiative to dial 911 on behalf of my mother as her scream for help traveled through the air to nearest ears that were open. Her and her husband were the friendliest older couple I have ever met. I can’t completely remember the name of her husband so well call him Lorettas husband for now, but Loretta, was a sweetheart. Every holiday, including those nationally celebrated and those that weren’t, we were always trading gifts and wine bottles. by the age of 18, I must have tasted about 25 different types of wine from all corners of the world. And that is not an exaggeration. She opened my eyes and taste buds to Italian food, as we opened hers to Nigerian cuisine also, not to mention, she was gardener, and a great one at that. On frequent occasions, she would bring freshly grown tomatoes and peppers over to us in abundant amounts, and boy, if you cook often, you would be instantly notice that something tasted fresh. During the early days of spring of every spring that I knew Lorettas husband, we would always sit on the chair on his front yard and talk about how shitty the Knicks were, debating and placing friendly wagers that the knicks would have a worse record than the preceding season next season. Ironic thing is that we were both die hard knick fans..its quite funny looking back at those days now and I would give almost anything to have those days/neighbors back, which is part of the reason why I cant let this place go.
Inside was three rooms an attic and a play room, which was my favorite part of the house. The playroom, though not the biggest space in the world, but decent in size was where I spent almost all, if not all of my time. It composed of a 50inch TV and a kick ass sound system that my sister and me used to play a variety of dance songs on, and dance our worries at the time away. We had what was then, the hottest gaming console on the market, a Sony play station 2, a computer, a couch that was just incredibly comfortable, and finally, the most comfortable carpet I ever lay my feet on. Everyday after school, my first stop was the dual door refrigerator to grab a drink, and then off to the playroom to do my homework as I listened to music. Followed by an infinite amount of hours in front of the TV, watching nickelodeon. That room was my getaway from the problems I had to endure cause of that man. That room was also the room where I introduced my first major girlfriend to my mother and the rest of my family, the same room where my father slapped me across my face, the same room where I learned how to do the “heel toe” which was a popular dance at the time. The room that had numerous of my drawings across the whole room as if there was a holiday that designated picture to be hung up like Christmas decorations do. My personal dinning room, and room, though it was a play room, but more than normal, I found myself waking up on the couch during the wee hours of the morning, only to drag myself in a zombie type method to my room, which I shared with my brother.
My sister’s room was right next to the playroom, and boy, was it obvious to tell whose room that was. Barbie dolls everywhere, mix matched colorful shoes all over the place, dresses, skinny jeans, and hair tie things. She was not your normal 13-year-old, but in the best of ways. Bro, can you please help me put this picture on my wall, bro can u help me fix my window, it wont close. The silly rabbit had forgotten she had put the lock on when she opened it. Cant complain though because I loved helping her in any way I could, but I couldn’t figure out if I especially did not care because it was my beloved sister I was helping, or if it was because I just loved being helpful around the house.
Me and my brothers room is next, it was about 16 x 16 in size and was obviously obvious whose room it belonged to just by approaching the door and looking at the sign that was drawn and pasted on the back of the door. “no girls allowed, please knock” in reference to my sister. It was childish if you ask me, but had to be done for my sister had a nasty habit of just barging in the room unannounced or without knocking. The drawings flowed from the walls of the playroom down to the room. Pictures that were drawn of me and my brother, favorite NBA players, cars I loved and would love to own someday were other types of pictures that were on display throughout the room. My bed was on the right and his was on the left. He got what I wanted as I love sleeping by the window. The room had a perfect view to the outside world, but I had to go on to my brothers side of the room to see the outside world, which more than often, got on his nerves.
The living room, was just that, a living room. Though rarely occupied, it was still beautiful. It had fluffy red wall-to-wall carpeting, a huge fireplace, and white walls with dashes of pink. A huge sliding door that led to the backyard, but at the same token gave a view of Lorettas backyard also. Black leather couches, and a surround sound system that had a lot of “HMPH”. The living room was the second thing that you walked into upon entering the house- the kitchen was the first. The living room was where my sister had her major first party, and boy did it turn out good. She had about 30 of her friends over, and it was like running our own chuck e cheese for the day. The one song that I cant seem to forget playing that whole day is by jimmy eat world, and the name was “the middle.” Me and my sister literally grabbed two remote controlls and started singing to each other like some American idol rejects,-
It just takes some time,
little girl, you're in the middle of the ride.
Everything, everything will be just fine,
Everything, everything will be alright. (alright)
Everyone crowded around us and cheered us on.. wow, good ol’ days. That is one particular moment in my life that I will forever be grateful for and also glad I had a chance to experience. As much as I loved this place, it was taken from me within the blink of an eye.
"Ring ring", “is Mr Akinyemi home?”, “no he is not, how can I help you” I replied, “well, my name is Mathew Pavlushkin, and im here to inform you that the new owners will be moving in 3 weeks” “WHAT?!?!?, you cant be serious I replied shocked and hurt. “Yes I am sir, please make sure you deliver the message, have a good day” he replied in a such a way that in comparison to the coldest day of the coldest winter, it was summer. My so-called father had sold the house without our knowledge, leaving me, my mother, brother and sister to find a house within that time frame. I was shocked, offended, sickened, heated, poignant, aggravated, full of rage, disappointed, and lastly robbed. I never thought the day would come when I had to say goodbye to it. I was in shock for about a week, grief for the second, and tears all through out the third. A piece of me was taken from me. It is fair to say that materialistic things can be replaced or bought back. I beg to differ, memories I had in that house cannot be paid for, or bought, and I know, it was a memory, and as long as I have it, its mine to keep, but for some reason, getting forced to move out doesn’t make it the same anymore. Those memories don’t have as much “BANG” as they could potentially have if we didn’t have to pack up and leave.
As we see, animals and humans are not the only things that people can get emotionally attached to. It can be places, things, smells, or even pictures; for me, 70 Colonia boulevard, Rahway NJ 07065 is the address that was. As said earlier, it wasn't the biggest of houses, but adequate enough. A place where tears were shed, bonds created, and believe it or not, love actually found. I find myself driving by this house almost every day, as I only seem to remember the good memories whenever I drive by. On occasion, i actually drive out of the way to get a glance, with the most recent visit being today on my way home from work. Stopping to think of the holidays we shared there, and having the best neighbor one could ask for, trading gifts and bottles of wine every thanksgiving and Christmas, and just having someone to relax with on warm spring afternoons. Most people have a difficult time with loosing things that have life, such as people, or animals, but i seem to be having the most difficult time saying a final goodbye to Colonia Boulevard. I cant exactly say why, whether it be because we’ve had such terrible luck with houses and neighbors both in our recent searches, or maybe the manner in which we had to leave the house.. i can only laugh at that situation now, but that is not the one at hand. I just cant seem to find the strength to say a final goodbye, but writing this might have helped me understand why i cant say goodbye to it, and why i keep going back to it more than often. I was robbed of something that meant to so much to me. They say everything happens for a reason, and that when one door closes, numerous ones open. HA!, till tomorrow, im still waiting for my reason to be forced to say goodbye, striving to make sense of why things had to end the way they did, and I definitely don’t want another door to open, except for one exception; the doors to 70 Colonia Boulevard
It was not the largest, but it was definitely amongst the prettiest on the whole street. It was sky blue in color, with white shutters that complemented the blue oh so gracefully; Almost made it seem like there was a little piece of the heavens here on earth. A vast driveway and a big backyard were some of the things that I miss about this place. In the backyard was a set of swings and an over the ground pool where there were various cookouts and pool parties with friends and family. In the second part of the driveway was where I had my first huffy basketball rim, and believe it or not, my brother and I assembled it. Funny thing about the rim, my dear and beloved mother bought it for my brother and I, but in order to keep peace, and prevent any type of altercation, she had to say my father bought it for us…what type of man was he??, but that’s neither here nor there. It was on that rim that was put up in the driveway that I learned to dunk, and eventually broke the rim..silly old me.
The neighborhood was peaceful, friendly and quiet with the biggest ruckus, as much as I hate to this, coming from us, mainly from that guy called my father. Loretta was not just a neighbor, but also a friend, a caring one at that. One plenty occasions, she was the one who took the initiative to dial 911 on behalf of my mother as her scream for help traveled through the air to nearest ears that were open. Her and her husband were the friendliest older couple I have ever met. I can’t completely remember the name of her husband so well call him Lorettas husband for now, but Loretta, was a sweetheart. Every holiday, including those nationally celebrated and those that weren’t, we were always trading gifts and wine bottles. by the age of 18, I must have tasted about 25 different types of wine from all corners of the world. And that is not an exaggeration. She opened my eyes and taste buds to Italian food, as we opened hers to Nigerian cuisine also, not to mention, she was gardener, and a great one at that. On frequent occasions, she would bring freshly grown tomatoes and peppers over to us in abundant amounts, and boy, if you cook often, you would be instantly notice that something tasted fresh. During the early days of spring of every spring that I knew Lorettas husband, we would always sit on the chair on his front yard and talk about how shitty the Knicks were, debating and placing friendly wagers that the knicks would have a worse record than the preceding season next season. Ironic thing is that we were both die hard knick fans..its quite funny looking back at those days now and I would give almost anything to have those days/neighbors back, which is part of the reason why I cant let this place go.
Inside was three rooms an attic and a play room, which was my favorite part of the house. The playroom, though not the biggest space in the world, but decent in size was where I spent almost all, if not all of my time. It composed of a 50inch TV and a kick ass sound system that my sister and me used to play a variety of dance songs on, and dance our worries at the time away. We had what was then, the hottest gaming console on the market, a Sony play station 2, a computer, a couch that was just incredibly comfortable, and finally, the most comfortable carpet I ever lay my feet on. Everyday after school, my first stop was the dual door refrigerator to grab a drink, and then off to the playroom to do my homework as I listened to music. Followed by an infinite amount of hours in front of the TV, watching nickelodeon. That room was my getaway from the problems I had to endure cause of that man. That room was also the room where I introduced my first major girlfriend to my mother and the rest of my family, the same room where my father slapped me across my face, the same room where I learned how to do the “heel toe” which was a popular dance at the time. The room that had numerous of my drawings across the whole room as if there was a holiday that designated picture to be hung up like Christmas decorations do. My personal dinning room, and room, though it was a play room, but more than normal, I found myself waking up on the couch during the wee hours of the morning, only to drag myself in a zombie type method to my room, which I shared with my brother.
My sister’s room was right next to the playroom, and boy, was it obvious to tell whose room that was. Barbie dolls everywhere, mix matched colorful shoes all over the place, dresses, skinny jeans, and hair tie things. She was not your normal 13-year-old, but in the best of ways. Bro, can you please help me put this picture on my wall, bro can u help me fix my window, it wont close. The silly rabbit had forgotten she had put the lock on when she opened it. Cant complain though because I loved helping her in any way I could, but I couldn’t figure out if I especially did not care because it was my beloved sister I was helping, or if it was because I just loved being helpful around the house.
Me and my brothers room is next, it was about 16 x 16 in size and was obviously obvious whose room it belonged to just by approaching the door and looking at the sign that was drawn and pasted on the back of the door. “no girls allowed, please knock” in reference to my sister. It was childish if you ask me, but had to be done for my sister had a nasty habit of just barging in the room unannounced or without knocking. The drawings flowed from the walls of the playroom down to the room. Pictures that were drawn of me and my brother, favorite NBA players, cars I loved and would love to own someday were other types of pictures that were on display throughout the room. My bed was on the right and his was on the left. He got what I wanted as I love sleeping by the window. The room had a perfect view to the outside world, but I had to go on to my brothers side of the room to see the outside world, which more than often, got on his nerves.
The living room, was just that, a living room. Though rarely occupied, it was still beautiful. It had fluffy red wall-to-wall carpeting, a huge fireplace, and white walls with dashes of pink. A huge sliding door that led to the backyard, but at the same token gave a view of Lorettas backyard also. Black leather couches, and a surround sound system that had a lot of “HMPH”. The living room was the second thing that you walked into upon entering the house- the kitchen was the first. The living room was where my sister had her major first party, and boy did it turn out good. She had about 30 of her friends over, and it was like running our own chuck e cheese for the day. The one song that I cant seem to forget playing that whole day is by jimmy eat world, and the name was “the middle.” Me and my sister literally grabbed two remote controlls and started singing to each other like some American idol rejects,-
It just takes some time,
little girl, you're in the middle of the ride.
Everything, everything will be just fine,
Everything, everything will be alright. (alright)
Everyone crowded around us and cheered us on.. wow, good ol’ days. That is one particular moment in my life that I will forever be grateful for and also glad I had a chance to experience. As much as I loved this place, it was taken from me within the blink of an eye.
"Ring ring", “is Mr Akinyemi home?”, “no he is not, how can I help you” I replied, “well, my name is Mathew Pavlushkin, and im here to inform you that the new owners will be moving in 3 weeks” “WHAT?!?!?, you cant be serious I replied shocked and hurt. “Yes I am sir, please make sure you deliver the message, have a good day” he replied in a such a way that in comparison to the coldest day of the coldest winter, it was summer. My so-called father had sold the house without our knowledge, leaving me, my mother, brother and sister to find a house within that time frame. I was shocked, offended, sickened, heated, poignant, aggravated, full of rage, disappointed, and lastly robbed. I never thought the day would come when I had to say goodbye to it. I was in shock for about a week, grief for the second, and tears all through out the third. A piece of me was taken from me. It is fair to say that materialistic things can be replaced or bought back. I beg to differ, memories I had in that house cannot be paid for, or bought, and I know, it was a memory, and as long as I have it, its mine to keep, but for some reason, getting forced to move out doesn’t make it the same anymore. Those memories don’t have as much “BANG” as they could potentially have if we didn’t have to pack up and leave.
As we see, animals and humans are not the only things that people can get emotionally attached to. It can be places, things, smells, or even pictures; for me, 70 Colonia boulevard, Rahway NJ 07065 is the address that was. As said earlier, it wasn't the biggest of houses, but adequate enough. A place where tears were shed, bonds created, and believe it or not, love actually found. I find myself driving by this house almost every day, as I only seem to remember the good memories whenever I drive by. On occasion, i actually drive out of the way to get a glance, with the most recent visit being today on my way home from work. Stopping to think of the holidays we shared there, and having the best neighbor one could ask for, trading gifts and bottles of wine every thanksgiving and Christmas, and just having someone to relax with on warm spring afternoons. Most people have a difficult time with loosing things that have life, such as people, or animals, but i seem to be having the most difficult time saying a final goodbye to Colonia Boulevard. I cant exactly say why, whether it be because we’ve had such terrible luck with houses and neighbors both in our recent searches, or maybe the manner in which we had to leave the house.. i can only laugh at that situation now, but that is not the one at hand. I just cant seem to find the strength to say a final goodbye, but writing this might have helped me understand why i cant say goodbye to it, and why i keep going back to it more than often. I was robbed of something that meant to so much to me. They say everything happens for a reason, and that when one door closes, numerous ones open. HA!, till tomorrow, im still waiting for my reason to be forced to say goodbye, striving to make sense of why things had to end the way they did, and I definitely don’t want another door to open, except for one exception; the doors to 70 Colonia Boulevard
Blog #19
Some people dance, some people sing, some people read or write or garden or play sports. But, the most relaxing thing to me is to sit down with a piece of paper and a pencil and draw. It doesn’t cost a lot of money and anyone can do it (although not everyone does it well) and in an instant you transform into the world in which you are drawing. One of my favorites of the many pieces I have made is a picture of a rose with a few petals wilted of the stem which at the point of its creation, was very significant to me, symbolizing the amount of heart break that has transpired amongst I and her. As written in my previous essays, once something is done in me, its virtually impossible to undo it, hence the wilted rose petals. This picture till today, sits on the dresser in my bedroom collecting dust as if it was created to be a dust buster. With every waking day, I look at the picture and imagine, what if??. I call her my friend because at this moment as I am writing this she is my friend, although that status changes as frequently as the weather. A few months ago, when I drew that picture for her, she was more than my friend. Although she was not my girlfriend I spoke to her everyday. She was the first person I spoke to in the morning and the last one at night and as much as I wanted to love her I knew I never could.
This story actually begins about 3 years ago when I started working at Lowe’s home improvement store. I worked there part time at night while I went to school and minded my own business. I did what needed to be done and I left. That all changed one night. It was late and the store was closed, I was cleaning my department when I heard someone talking and turned around to see one of my coworkers, Diane a fifty-something woman who worked front end, hugging a tall blonde with curves you would not believe.
I must have been staring for a few seconds because next thing I knew she was looking right at me with a big smile on her face. I wish I could have seen my face in that instant because I’m pretty sure I was wearing the quintessential dopey grin you hear about in all puppy love stories. Instantaneously, I imagined in my head the typical “she loves me, she loves me not” with a rose being the obvious choice of flower to be wilted. She walked out the door with Diane, who I learned was her mother, and took my heart with her. From that day on I was hooked. I went home that night with the intention of finishing a paper but I ended up staring at my ceiling for 2 hours. Though physically present in my room, I was on an imaginary cloud 9. We were walking through a park her hand was in mine, we were driving in my car and I couldn’t keep my eyes on the road, we were at the beach and my arm was around her waist, keep in mind, I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.
Every night that I worked I looked for her and every once in a while she would come in and wave and that would be enough for me. I had developed a sort of mother son relationship with her mom over the course of those few months. Her mom saw how I looked at her and she wasn’t a fool. She explained to me that her daughter, Colleen, was a senior in high school, very smart, funny, an extrovert, but terrible at flirting, and most importantly dating a real jerk. But I didn’t care, I was going to go for it and if she wasn’t interested at least I would know and wouldn’t be going crazy.
With the help of her mother I made the first move. She agreed to give my number to her daughter, but I decided to be somewhat romantic, and hopefully better my chances so i attached it to a 16inch red rose, which is the symbolic flower for love for I thought I was in what I thought to be love. She even promised me that she’d gauge her reaction and tell me what my chances were.
All that night I waited for my phone to go off. I pictured what would happen when she called. Real nonchalantly after the third ring “Hello?” like I didn’t know who it was calling. Her response would be “Hello, I’m looking for DJ.” To which I would say, “Hey what’s up this is DJ, who is this?” so then she would think I gave my number to girls all the time. Always play it cool. By the end of the conversation she would be in love with me and we would live happily ever after.
It didn’t quite go that way, however, and when I woke up in the morning with my phone still lying next to my head with no missed called or new messages, I knew things were not going to be that easy. I didn’t work the following night and her mom had the next day off. When I finally got a chance to speak to her my nerves were on end. I learned that she had given her daughter the number as soon as she got in the car after work that night. Colleen, she told me, had smiled her adorable smile and “blushed redder than my Lowe’s vest” and had ripped the piece of paper from the rose with my number on it in and put in her pocket. That’s when the trouble started because her boyfriend, we’ll call him Ryan, was at her house and happened to see the piece of paper sticking out of her pocket when she walked in., signifying the first petal wilted from the rose. From what I understand after hearing the story, there was a lot of yelling by him and a lot of crying by her. I felt a range of emotion I’ve never experienced before. I felt guilty for causing her this problem, I felt disappointed because I knew she would never call now, I felt anger at her boyfriend for ruining everything, but most of all I still loved her. Despite, everything I did something I never do, I gave up. What else was there for me to do? I had tried and failed and was now out of options. But I never stopped thinking about her.
Three weeks later I got my luckiest break thus far: I went from “she loves me not, to she loves me.” I learned that Colleen was in the store, better than that she was in the training room, attending orientation for new employees. She was now my coworker. I would have an opportunity to see those big blue eyes that could turn any frown upside down. I saw her several nights a week and although we worked in different departments, we would sneak and talk whenever we could, yes its fair to say she was sort of a sneaky type. Turns out she was not as bad at flirting as her mother seemed to think and as time went on, I fell harder and harder for this girl. And yet always present was the fact that she had a boyfriend. That should have been my first warning that this was on the fast track to nowhere, though, she never tried to hide that and always told me she loved him but it didn’t matter to me. Finally I convinced her to hangout with me after work one night, it only happened because her boyfriend was cheating on her at the time and was at his other girlfriend’s house. Another character that she displayed was that she had the potential to be spiteful, despite who was in the wrong. She would never have admitted that to me at the time but she knew what was going on and has since told me everything.
We met up at Menlo Mall with the intention of seeing a movie but there was nothing good playing, the bowling alley was already closed so she came up with the bright idea to take me to the strip club. I didn’t know whether to think she was crazy, awesome, or a lesbian. As time progressed, she turned out to be both awesome and crazy, but not a lesbian (so much for my chances of a threesome) All she was trying to show me was that we were just friends and could “hang” without it being a date. For any regular guy, that would have been heaven- naked girls dancing all over the place like oompa loompas, but all I could think was “look away look away, she’s sitting right next to you”. We continued our friendship for a few more months in our flirty coworker fashion until she disappeared. After three weeks of looking for her at work and not finding her (I tried calling but her phone was shut off) I finally asked one of our coworkers what happened. As it turned out, Colleen had quit and according to her mother had run away with her aforementioned bad seed of a boyfriend. It felt like someone had slapped me in the face. She didn’t even have the balls or consideration to tell me. Another petal off,- “she loves me not”
A year passed and I had not heard a word from the girl I still thought about at random moments in my life. Logically I should have given up hope but emotionally I couldn’t. And then like out of a dream she was there in my aisle looking at me with those blue eyes that made my heart stop every time I saw her. Instantly an entire year was wiped away. I wanted desperately to ask her what had happened to her over the past year,- why she left me in the dark without any explanation, why she made me hurt, but I couldn’t muster up the confidence to. Another trait found about her, she was very inconsiderate when it came to emotions. She gave me a huge hug and I thought I would never let go, this was the moment I knew I would never lose her again. She told me her and her boyfriend had broken up and I immediately asked her to go to the movies, though something sat uneasily with me, and 9 out of 10 times, when I have a gut feeling about something, im usually correct. To my amazement she agreed and we had our first date. It might seem average as far as first dates go, Pirates of the Caribbean followed by a make out session in the parking lot. But, to me it was an accumulation of two years worth of waiting and dreaming and fantasizing, coming into fruition.
Letting go of her and getting into my car that night was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I got home and awaited her text and was not disappointed. “she loves me”- another petal to the ground. We continued talking pretty much 24/7 for two weeks and then suddenly she disappeared again.- “she loves me not.” After three days of not a single word she finally sent me a text telling me she had gotten back with her ex. I felt as if someone had literally reached into my chest and ripped my heart from my body. Never had I felt such pain and betrayal and stupidity for believing I could ever be that happy. I didn’t know what to say to her so I just never responded.
Three more months with that hurt and still I loved this girl. I received a message from her one afternoon asking to hangout and like a sucker for love- I agreed. She was much more reserved this time. Things were not the same but I was not going to let her get away again. I told her about a poem I had written several months before after our first date. I told her that it explained that I loved her and why and how I couldn’t stop loving her. I asked her if she wanted to read it. Her response was not the one I wanted to hear. She told me I couldn’t love her, that I didn’t know her, and that no one loved her. She would not accept my feelings as truth and instead got mad at me when I tried to explain it to her. I was confused and hurt and ripped up the poem. Still to this day she has no idea what it said.
We hung out a few more times but it was awkward and I didn’t know how to act around someone I loved, who clearly did not love me. She solved that problem a month later, by getting together with her ex AGAIN. This time my heart was ripped out, stomped on my a 400lb man, run over by an 18 wheeler, crushed by a herd of stampeding elephants. I knew I would never love anyone as I did her ever again. There was nothing left in my heart. I was destroyed emotionally. I vowed never to speak to this girl again. I would never let her hurt me, she was a pariah and the worst thing to ever happen to me.
This was when I decided to draw this rose, something that is so beautiful if nurtured and taken care of suitably, but also with the potential to prick you and possibly draw blood. Once a rose starts loosing its petals, it looses its purpose, its vigor, its pizzazz, its beauty, its value, its worth. This is what she had unconsciously done to what could have been. She took something so good and deflowered it. Unlike lego blocks that can be reassembled back together after being dismantled, the petals can never get attached again. If you remember clearly from my previous essay, this situation is somewhat similar to what me and my beloved brother went/is still going through. She had hurt me, but she did it on a one-way street- no going back.
Yet here I am telling you about the picture sitting on my desk. I drew it a few years ago, after one of our many dates. While my hand moved the pencil across the paper I envisioned the many chances we had, the opportunities to make each other happy, and the fact that no matter how many times we can lose a piece of ourselves we still live and go on. We have split up and gotten back together more times than I can remember.
Not once since those initial two break ups has she been the one to leave. She has spent the last year trying to make up for hurting me and to an extent she has. I still don’t her now trust her now even though I know she would never get back with her ex. But it’s not about that anymore. Every time I get close enough to feel an emotion further than “like” I find a reason to fight with her. She has called me out on it and knows very well that it is not something I have any control over. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to love her again. I don’t know if my subconscious will ever allow me to. Despite all of this we talk everyday and she chooses to stick around. She has told me several times she loves me and I haven’t been able to say it back. She is aware that there is a possibility I never will due to her prior faults. Its dying, the rose- slowly but steadily, it lost all of its petals, it was never the same again, it was young but had an early expiration date. She doomed us, she doomed me, she doomed what could have been. We could have grown to be something more beautiful than the biggest brightest red rose, unfortunately, were just the left over petals wilted all over the floor, washed away by the everyday works of mother nature.
This story actually begins about 3 years ago when I started working at Lowe’s home improvement store. I worked there part time at night while I went to school and minded my own business. I did what needed to be done and I left. That all changed one night. It was late and the store was closed, I was cleaning my department when I heard someone talking and turned around to see one of my coworkers, Diane a fifty-something woman who worked front end, hugging a tall blonde with curves you would not believe.
I must have been staring for a few seconds because next thing I knew she was looking right at me with a big smile on her face. I wish I could have seen my face in that instant because I’m pretty sure I was wearing the quintessential dopey grin you hear about in all puppy love stories. Instantaneously, I imagined in my head the typical “she loves me, she loves me not” with a rose being the obvious choice of flower to be wilted. She walked out the door with Diane, who I learned was her mother, and took my heart with her. From that day on I was hooked. I went home that night with the intention of finishing a paper but I ended up staring at my ceiling for 2 hours. Though physically present in my room, I was on an imaginary cloud 9. We were walking through a park her hand was in mine, we were driving in my car and I couldn’t keep my eyes on the road, we were at the beach and my arm was around her waist, keep in mind, I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.
Every night that I worked I looked for her and every once in a while she would come in and wave and that would be enough for me. I had developed a sort of mother son relationship with her mom over the course of those few months. Her mom saw how I looked at her and she wasn’t a fool. She explained to me that her daughter, Colleen, was a senior in high school, very smart, funny, an extrovert, but terrible at flirting, and most importantly dating a real jerk. But I didn’t care, I was going to go for it and if she wasn’t interested at least I would know and wouldn’t be going crazy.
With the help of her mother I made the first move. She agreed to give my number to her daughter, but I decided to be somewhat romantic, and hopefully better my chances so i attached it to a 16inch red rose, which is the symbolic flower for love for I thought I was in what I thought to be love. She even promised me that she’d gauge her reaction and tell me what my chances were.
All that night I waited for my phone to go off. I pictured what would happen when she called. Real nonchalantly after the third ring “Hello?” like I didn’t know who it was calling. Her response would be “Hello, I’m looking for DJ.” To which I would say, “Hey what’s up this is DJ, who is this?” so then she would think I gave my number to girls all the time. Always play it cool. By the end of the conversation she would be in love with me and we would live happily ever after.
It didn’t quite go that way, however, and when I woke up in the morning with my phone still lying next to my head with no missed called or new messages, I knew things were not going to be that easy. I didn’t work the following night and her mom had the next day off. When I finally got a chance to speak to her my nerves were on end. I learned that she had given her daughter the number as soon as she got in the car after work that night. Colleen, she told me, had smiled her adorable smile and “blushed redder than my Lowe’s vest” and had ripped the piece of paper from the rose with my number on it in and put in her pocket. That’s when the trouble started because her boyfriend, we’ll call him Ryan, was at her house and happened to see the piece of paper sticking out of her pocket when she walked in., signifying the first petal wilted from the rose. From what I understand after hearing the story, there was a lot of yelling by him and a lot of crying by her. I felt a range of emotion I’ve never experienced before. I felt guilty for causing her this problem, I felt disappointed because I knew she would never call now, I felt anger at her boyfriend for ruining everything, but most of all I still loved her. Despite, everything I did something I never do, I gave up. What else was there for me to do? I had tried and failed and was now out of options. But I never stopped thinking about her.
Three weeks later I got my luckiest break thus far: I went from “she loves me not, to she loves me.” I learned that Colleen was in the store, better than that she was in the training room, attending orientation for new employees. She was now my coworker. I would have an opportunity to see those big blue eyes that could turn any frown upside down. I saw her several nights a week and although we worked in different departments, we would sneak and talk whenever we could, yes its fair to say she was sort of a sneaky type. Turns out she was not as bad at flirting as her mother seemed to think and as time went on, I fell harder and harder for this girl. And yet always present was the fact that she had a boyfriend. That should have been my first warning that this was on the fast track to nowhere, though, she never tried to hide that and always told me she loved him but it didn’t matter to me. Finally I convinced her to hangout with me after work one night, it only happened because her boyfriend was cheating on her at the time and was at his other girlfriend’s house. Another character that she displayed was that she had the potential to be spiteful, despite who was in the wrong. She would never have admitted that to me at the time but she knew what was going on and has since told me everything.
We met up at Menlo Mall with the intention of seeing a movie but there was nothing good playing, the bowling alley was already closed so she came up with the bright idea to take me to the strip club. I didn’t know whether to think she was crazy, awesome, or a lesbian. As time progressed, she turned out to be both awesome and crazy, but not a lesbian (so much for my chances of a threesome) All she was trying to show me was that we were just friends and could “hang” without it being a date. For any regular guy, that would have been heaven- naked girls dancing all over the place like oompa loompas, but all I could think was “look away look away, she’s sitting right next to you”. We continued our friendship for a few more months in our flirty coworker fashion until she disappeared. After three weeks of looking for her at work and not finding her (I tried calling but her phone was shut off) I finally asked one of our coworkers what happened. As it turned out, Colleen had quit and according to her mother had run away with her aforementioned bad seed of a boyfriend. It felt like someone had slapped me in the face. She didn’t even have the balls or consideration to tell me. Another petal off,- “she loves me not”
A year passed and I had not heard a word from the girl I still thought about at random moments in my life. Logically I should have given up hope but emotionally I couldn’t. And then like out of a dream she was there in my aisle looking at me with those blue eyes that made my heart stop every time I saw her. Instantly an entire year was wiped away. I wanted desperately to ask her what had happened to her over the past year,- why she left me in the dark without any explanation, why she made me hurt, but I couldn’t muster up the confidence to. Another trait found about her, she was very inconsiderate when it came to emotions. She gave me a huge hug and I thought I would never let go, this was the moment I knew I would never lose her again. She told me her and her boyfriend had broken up and I immediately asked her to go to the movies, though something sat uneasily with me, and 9 out of 10 times, when I have a gut feeling about something, im usually correct. To my amazement she agreed and we had our first date. It might seem average as far as first dates go, Pirates of the Caribbean followed by a make out session in the parking lot. But, to me it was an accumulation of two years worth of waiting and dreaming and fantasizing, coming into fruition.
Letting go of her and getting into my car that night was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I got home and awaited her text and was not disappointed. “she loves me”- another petal to the ground. We continued talking pretty much 24/7 for two weeks and then suddenly she disappeared again.- “she loves me not.” After three days of not a single word she finally sent me a text telling me she had gotten back with her ex. I felt as if someone had literally reached into my chest and ripped my heart from my body. Never had I felt such pain and betrayal and stupidity for believing I could ever be that happy. I didn’t know what to say to her so I just never responded.
Three more months with that hurt and still I loved this girl. I received a message from her one afternoon asking to hangout and like a sucker for love- I agreed. She was much more reserved this time. Things were not the same but I was not going to let her get away again. I told her about a poem I had written several months before after our first date. I told her that it explained that I loved her and why and how I couldn’t stop loving her. I asked her if she wanted to read it. Her response was not the one I wanted to hear. She told me I couldn’t love her, that I didn’t know her, and that no one loved her. She would not accept my feelings as truth and instead got mad at me when I tried to explain it to her. I was confused and hurt and ripped up the poem. Still to this day she has no idea what it said.
We hung out a few more times but it was awkward and I didn’t know how to act around someone I loved, who clearly did not love me. She solved that problem a month later, by getting together with her ex AGAIN. This time my heart was ripped out, stomped on my a 400lb man, run over by an 18 wheeler, crushed by a herd of stampeding elephants. I knew I would never love anyone as I did her ever again. There was nothing left in my heart. I was destroyed emotionally. I vowed never to speak to this girl again. I would never let her hurt me, she was a pariah and the worst thing to ever happen to me.
This was when I decided to draw this rose, something that is so beautiful if nurtured and taken care of suitably, but also with the potential to prick you and possibly draw blood. Once a rose starts loosing its petals, it looses its purpose, its vigor, its pizzazz, its beauty, its value, its worth. This is what she had unconsciously done to what could have been. She took something so good and deflowered it. Unlike lego blocks that can be reassembled back together after being dismantled, the petals can never get attached again. If you remember clearly from my previous essay, this situation is somewhat similar to what me and my beloved brother went/is still going through. She had hurt me, but she did it on a one-way street- no going back.
Yet here I am telling you about the picture sitting on my desk. I drew it a few years ago, after one of our many dates. While my hand moved the pencil across the paper I envisioned the many chances we had, the opportunities to make each other happy, and the fact that no matter how many times we can lose a piece of ourselves we still live and go on. We have split up and gotten back together more times than I can remember.
Not once since those initial two break ups has she been the one to leave. She has spent the last year trying to make up for hurting me and to an extent she has. I still don’t her now trust her now even though I know she would never get back with her ex. But it’s not about that anymore. Every time I get close enough to feel an emotion further than “like” I find a reason to fight with her. She has called me out on it and knows very well that it is not something I have any control over. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to love her again. I don’t know if my subconscious will ever allow me to. Despite all of this we talk everyday and she chooses to stick around. She has told me several times she loves me and I haven’t been able to say it back. She is aware that there is a possibility I never will due to her prior faults. Its dying, the rose- slowly but steadily, it lost all of its petals, it was never the same again, it was young but had an early expiration date. She doomed us, she doomed me, she doomed what could have been. We could have grown to be something more beautiful than the biggest brightest red rose, unfortunately, were just the left over petals wilted all over the floor, washed away by the everyday works of mother nature.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Blog #18
70 Colonia boulevard, Rahway NJ 07065 is the address that was. It wasn't the biggest of houses, but sufficient enough. My old house that holds abundant memories, both good and bad. A place where tears were shed, bonds created, and believe it or not, love actually found. I find myself driving by this house almost every day as i only seem to remember the good memories whenever i drive by. On occasion, i actually drive out of the way to get a glance at the blue house with the white shutters and white storm door, with the most recent visit being today on my way home from work. Stopping to think of the holidays we shared there, and having the the best neighbor one could ask for, trading gifts and bottles of wine every thanksgiving and christmas. Most people have a difficult time with loosing things that have life, such as people, or animals, but i seem to be having the most difficult time saying a final goodbye to the house on colonia boulevard. I cant exactly say why, wether it be because weve had such terrible luck with houses and both in our recent searches, or maybe the manner in which we had to leave the house. "ring ring", the new owners will be moving in in 3 weeks. My so called father had sold the house without our knowledge, leaving me, my mother, brother and sister to find a house within 3 weeks. i can only laugh at that situation now, but that is not the one at hand. I just cant seem to find the strength to say a final goodbye to the house, but writing this might have helped me understand why i cant say goodbye to it, and why i keep going back to it more than often. I was robbed of my beloved home
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