a covenant

There was once a girl who loved the world too much. This girl lived in a city and liked to wear high heeled shoes that gave her blisters. This girl often thought to herself the mantra “pain is a reminder that you’re alive”, and sometimes she said it aloud to others. She had bright eyes and small hands. This girl’s small hands liked big hands that would eat them up. This girl was extroverted and friendly, and she was aware of her extroversion and friendliness. It was apparent that this girl was at home in a crowd. This girl loved to talk, but also to listen, though sometimes this girl was easily distracted. Regardless, this girl loved people, because people are a part of the world, the world which she loved too much.

And people loved this girl back, but she wasn’t always so sure. Sometimes this girl had daydreams. In these daydreams, this girl would experience a horrible accident. She would fall from a dangerously high ledge. Her lungs would collapse. She would double over from the sharp pain in her appendix. Cold sweat would drip from her forehead while she was giving an important speech right before she collapsed at the podium before thousands of people. Or her favorite fantasy; this one was certainly dramatic. This girl – she would be crossing a busy street at night, parting ways with someone that she considered her best friend, whom she, of course, loved, and she would start to cross, kind of jogging to avoid the speeding vehicles, when her best friend, this boy, he would call out to this girl. This was a stupid thing for this boy to do. But this boy, her best friend, just had an impulse, and he wasn’t ready to say goodbye to this girl, so he did the stupid thing anyway. Without thinking, he just calls out, “Hey! Wait!”, to this girl and she stops and turns around. I mean, this girl comes to a halt, plants and pivots right in the middle of this road. This was a stupid thing for this girl to do. Despite this clear lack of judgement, this girl is usually very sensible. It is quite out of character for her to do this stupid thing. The reason this situation has to do with this boy. See, this boy, the one this girl considers her best friend, is a prime example of one of those people she isn’t sure of. This girl was absolutely certain of her devotion to this boy; this girl only knew how to love fiercely, but she just couldn’t read him. This girl didn’t want to date this boy or sleep with this boy or even kiss this boy, she just wanted to mean as much to him as he meant to her. And, boys in general, but especially this boy aren’t necessarily good at showing their appreciation. Anyway, this boy, her best friend, the one she isn’t sure of – he called out to her while she was in the middle of the dangerous road and, well, as she turned and stopped, they shared a smile. A loving, reassuring smile for half a second before this girl gets flattened by an SUV. Really, this girl fantasizes about this kind of stuff.

So anyway, then in her daydream, this girl, a pancake in the road, is rushed to the hospital. Still alive, but unconscious. Her best friend, he’s cursing himself for doing the stupid thing he did, and rides to the hospital with this girl. And they set her up in a hospital bed, dressed her in a stiff gown, and hooked her up to a bunch of technical machines that this girl could never identify. She would wake up, they thought — the doctors, the nurses. Hopefully, just give it some time. And this girl’s best friend would sit by her hospital bed, still angry with himself — tapping his left shoe and running his fingers through his hair. Not long after this girl’s parents would arrive to hold this girl’s hand, and this boy would be forced to leave because she wasn’t allowed more than two visitors. Now, because this was all just in this girl’s head, she was able to simultaneously be comatose in the hospital bed and experience herself from outside her body. This girl could watch the daytime soap operas that played on the TV in the corner, she could see the nurse check her cell phone covertly before she checked this girl’s vitals, and she could see the people. The people she loved too much; they had come to visit. Every single person this girl feared she loved in vain sat by her hospital bedside and held her hand. Or said a quick prayer. Or just came to sit with her, afraid they’d never be able to again. And this girl felt the commitment of reciprocated love. She thought it felt like interlocking fingers or the sun on her face.

I warned you it was dramatic.

This girl sometimes worried about people loving her back, but something this girl knew to be true was that it was impossible to love the world too much. This girl knew that there were things outside of her control. It was more important to love than to fuss over being loved. This girl couldn’t love too much, because love shouldn’t be quantified. She could love the world, the people, the flowers, the mountains, the cookies. But she could also love herself enough to know it doesn’t take a tragic accident to make someone love you back. This girl chose people to love for a reason. This girl was learning to trust. They didn’t have to show her and tell her that they loved her. This girl knew.

discomfort

It’s 8:05 on a Saturday and I’m yawning. The sun is just beginning to set; there’s pretty much still full light out. I’m wearing an oversized plaid button down that functions as pajamas that I donned 4 hours ago for my Arrested Development marathon. I can’t decide if I’m yawning because of my outfit, my choice in Saturday evening activities or because I worked out for the first time in three months today. All I know is I’m yawning again at 8:07 and 8:12 and I’m starting to think I’m too comfortable.

About six months ago, I was the farthest from comfortable I’ve ever been, hiking the Inca trail in the Andes. The four day trek from kilometer 82 to Machu Picchu was the most difficult thing I’ve ever accomplished. I was out of shape, my lungs barely function at low altitudes and being a diva isn’t a luxury afforded on the trail. The worst day was the second, which included five hours straight of uphill climbing into thinner and thinner air and was the only day it rained. During freshman year in New Orleans, it rained a great deal more than at home in Texas, so you’d think I’d have gotten accustomed to a little precipitation, when in fact, I’d just learned the skill of avoiding rain at all costs and opting to stay in the dorms whenever presented with showers. After one downtown outing during a tropical storm, I deemed trekking through the rain a “never again” activity. But, in Peru, I didn’t really have a choice. I felt obligated to press on, but I hated that day, and I know it, because I kept a journal. Before we started climbing “panic set in”. “The rain is miserable”, and “all I could think about was being at home”. Once we reached to top my tune changed a little when I wrote about the “amazing view”, “naked Canadians”, and that I was “beginning to think it was a good idea I didn’t pitch myself off the mountain”. A little cheerier, but not quite the Christmas special CBS was looking for. From just my memory, I remember that day being difficult, but without these records I would have never picked out suicidal thoughts from the trek. And I have a vivid memory of telling my father that I will never hike again, perhaps while chucking a pair of new hiking boots violently out of my tent. But, I suppose I’m a bit nostalgic, and as I sit here yawning in my pajamas, I decided to watch the video of Inca Trail footage I compiled as a fond memory. I wanted visual cues on the stunning location of my torture. But as I reminisced in video, all I desired was a return to the Andes.

Why is that? I not only have memories of pain but also my own documented thoughts of the hardships of the trek, but my brain still sort of thinks it’s a good idea to try it again. Maybe the 9 day trek this time. Our own memories play tricks on us, and we can never really remember something exactly as it happened. I can’t experience how sore my legs were after the trek right now, I can just remember that they were sore and that I complained about it incessantly. As I’m laying comfortably in my warm bed, I can’t experience being cold, wet, and exhausted; I can’t even recreate the mental state of wanting to jump off a mountain as I enjoy the comforts of air conditioning and dry sheets, but I can see hi-def photos of mountaintops, recall the taste of mango juice and recount new, exciting and terrifying feats I didn’t even know I was capable of doing before I spent last Christmas on the Inca Trail. But did these benefits of the trek outweigh the numerous difficulties?

The answer to that question is irrelevant, because by overcoming the physical task, by experiencing the spectacular Andes, and by being pushed outside of my comfort zone I was certain: this was living. Suffering is just a reminder that you’re alive, and what a blessing that is. I felt incredible pain when I was in Peru; I felt extremely alive when I was in Peru.

Living is what you do when you aren’t comfortable. When you have severe asthma and you walk up mountains anyway. When you tell someone you care about them. When you make an uncomfortable phone call to pull off that incredible prank. When you take a trip to see someone even though you have no idea where you stand with them. When you stop putting it off, sit down, write something, and finish it.

Would you look at that? It’s 9:59 and I’m wide awake.

the peru diaries: uno

As the internet world may or may not be aware of, I recently traveled to Peru to hike the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. For any of you that know me at all, you’re aware that I’m not particularly “outdoorsy” and the thought of me in hiking boots may make you giggle. But, the lure of the legend of the Lost City of the Incas and my own curiosity at what I was capable of led me on one of my dad’s crazy adventure vacations.

So we start our travels less than twelve hours after my arrival at home, on the road to Houston where our six hour flight to Lima departs from. After a surprisingly seamless flight, we land in the airport in Lima and finally escape the hour long customs line. In the arrivals area there are crowds of people packed together like they’re at a standing room only concert. I see these people squished together looking eagerly at the door, clutching signs with names and “bienvenidos” balloons, and I’m thinking, “What the hell are all these people doing here?” It’s midnight. I’m confused, there’s always hardly anyone waiting to pick up people in airports in the US, and even when they’re slightly increased around the holidays, it is nowhere close the the hordes of people that are occupying this terminal, especially at midnight. Megan insists that there’s got to be some pop star coming off the plane to explain the swarm of occupants. But, though this crowd shares close proximity, they don’t seem to be waiting on some distant celebrity. The mania factor isn’t there, plus the various nombres on the signs and genuine anticipation has nothing to do with being starstruck. This massive amount of people was simply packed into the arrivals to welcome their family and friends home for the holidays. It’s refreshing and a bit shocking as an American to witness the amount of people who just gave a shit about someone else enough to squeeze into an airport with a smile on their face.

When we arrive at the airport hotel for our brief nap before we continue our travels to Cusco at 6 am, Daddy gets a coupon for free drinks, so Megan and I visit the hotel bar at 12:30 am. When you order una limonada in Lima, you get to watch the bartender fill a glass with ice, then freshly squeezed lime juice, pure azucar syrup and agua into a glass. You’re parched and this tastes like heaven.

We’re here. We’re in Peru. I know what stands before me. We start hiking after spending a day and night and Cusco, but instead of dreading the future ahead of me, it is easier to enjoy where I am, so far away from home in this new world. Already Sudamerica has stolen mi corazon.

the dog days of summer.

I used to be so inspired to write. I really did. But for some reason, right now, these days, I just can’t for the life of me commit something captivating, yet intellectual to paper (or text box, however you fancy it). For some reason, I’ve been rather uninspired by the latest events in my life.

Perhaps because I’m dying of anticipation. There is a whole new life not too far ahead of me, and I feel like I’m on the edge of glory. (Thanks, Lady Gaga for the fabulous metaphor, I just assumed that song was written about me). All I can focus on is the future, and no matter how immediate it is, 19 days is still definitely the future. Because of my crippling condition, I cannot think about much else besides moving away and starting a new life in a new city with endless possibilities. Somewhere with new people, new places to explore, and hopefully new inspirations. Everything about Boerne has grown very stale and lifeless, just because I’ve been here so long. For this month of August (and the hottest days of the year), I’m forced to sit and dally around in Boerne, watching my friends leave to their dream destinations or go back to high school, while I wait, wait, wait for August 25.

The suspense of college has made it extremely difficult to appreciate what is around me. Especially being so uninspired by the state of my life right now, I am bitter and brooding about the eternity I must suffer before I can leave for New Orleans. But maybe this is all caused by the state of today and this past week filled with mediocrity. My life has consisted of work, TV, and sleep, and on good days shopping with family and friends. But the good times are ephemeral as Nana will return home, Derek jets off to Canada and all my other friends have busy exciting things to pass the time.

Maybe once I am through working on the tenth, the time will begin to pass more rapidly. By the time I actually have free time, all of my friends will be home and I’ll probably be so overwhelmed by wanting to see all of them, to have some closure, some moment of goodbye, but not for forever, that I’ll wake up on August 25th thinking I forgot someone. And though this is a rather abysmal thought, but it’s how life always goes. Time passes much more slowly when you’re bored out of your mind than when you’re with your best friends for a rather long time. I’ll always feel like there’s someone I’d like to tell something to, but alas time is not my friend.

I know I’ll love college. I know I’ll miss my friends and family, therefore time with them now is precious. But, I know that right now I’m at sort of a standstill. Probably because the triple digit temperatures have made movement rather precarious.

it all ends…or does it?

It’s 3:38 am, and if you know me at all, you know it is obscene for me to be awake at this hour, much less trying to string together coherent thoughts to publish on the internet. Most of my best work occurs during the twilight hours of 6-8 pm, so I have time to publish, then make preparations to be in bed at a decent hour, ie, 10 pm.

But, alas, it is now 3:40 am and I am writing. I suppose good writing also occurs from inspiring events. Inspiring, emotional, historic events. If you are even a little bit aware of the world around you, you know that I am referring to the “epic conclusion to the worldwide phenomenon”. I can’t type fast enough to commit all the thoughts swirling in my head to this text box. It’s times like these when a Pensieve would be bloody useful.

Though I will never go to another premiere, or tear through the fresh pages of a new book like my life depended on it, or taste butterbeer for the first time ever again, Harry Potter will never end.

The books that got me to start reading will always hold a special place in my heart. The magical world that JK Rowling has created will always be my real home. The greatest story ever told will not be so easily forgotten. Nothing that unites complete strangers so profoundly will simply fade like a dying flame. This story is a phoenix that will always rise from the wreckage of our favorite character’s deaths, and whatever this “the end” business is. How could we ever forget a story that has made us laugh, made us rage, made us cry, made us jump for joy, made us sigh, made us blush and taught us how to live? How could we live without Dumbledore’s constant, thoughtful words of wisdom? Without Ron’s heart of gold and comic relief? Without Hermione’s incredible wit in the face of danger? Without McGonagall’s sheer nerve? Without Mrs. Weasley’s motherly affection? Without Fred and George to always make us laugh?

So, hat’s off to JK Rowling and Warner Brothers for creating something so universally loved and special. These books have taught me so much more about life than I would have ever imagined. Re-reading these books at age 18, in the biggest transition period of my life thus far, has showed me how mature, yet simple, yet brilliant the tale of the Boy Who Lived is. It shows the despair of loneliness, but the deepest, strongest type of magic that can cure it. Magic that exists even for hopeless muggles. Love.

Though the cast may go their separate ways, and movie theatres will no longer worry about the crazy premieres, the promo posters are wrong. Though the final film is a tidy bookend to my childhood, as Neville so astutely states, “Harry will always live in our hearts”. As Snape and Lily say, “Always”.

Mischief Managed.

write more?

I don’t consider my New Years’ resolution to write more a failure, because I’ve been writing for school, on tumblr, and in my diary, but my thoughts are much more sporadic and choppy than they were in January when I made the ambitious goal to write more. When I made my resolution I intended this blog to be bursting with my thoughts worthy of sharing with you all, yet it has been rather empty and rather lonely for a long while.

As I write this I feel tremendously guilty for putting my blog through such horrible treatment. I know exactly what empty and lonely feel like, when you feel forgotten, or left out, or unimportant. When the one person who has the password to your heart won’t log on. When he ignores you like you’ve never met. When you wonder if you ever even cross his mind.

Well, I can say with confidence, dear blog, that you were often on my mind. I pushed you away because I was guilty. I tried to replace you with Tumblr (but really comparing wordpress and tumblr is like comparing a giraffe to a muffin). I was ashamed that I couldn’t organize my thoughts. I was afraid I had nothing to say.

But you know me too well, and you know that I was kidding myself. “Charisse always has something to say,” you muttered to yourself, bitterly, promising you wouldn’t take me once I came crawling back.

Subconsciously though, you knew I still cared. You knew I love to write, and you knew that all it would take was a start and I could go on for hours. You knew that I’d read some of my old posts and cringe to think that I was that bad once. You knew I’d be thinking that I’ll probably cringe at this one day too.

Once you heard that I signed up for that creative writing class at Tulane, you felt a glimmer of hope. I’d come back. She didn’t give up writing completely. You were very right. I wanted to come back. I wanted to write something that people wanted to read.

That’s the problem-isn’t it? Something that people wanted to read. Of course, I always have something to say, but that doesn’t mean anyone wants to hear about it. That’s the piece of the puzzle. The reason why I was gone. Insecurity. It always comes back to that. It circles back to the emptiness and loneliness.

In this convoluted crazy talk, I wanted to let anyone know, I’m not done with what I have to say. There is plenty more insanity throwing an insane party in my mind that I’m ready to let loose in a scary, blank text box. And it needs to be relocated. If no one wants to read it, I’ll just have to be okay with that, because Charisse is still writing more.

To be a good writer…

You must write about something absolutely ridiculous, absolutely engaging but that everyone understands. You must be a little dark, cynical but not take yourself too seriously. You must have the discipline to write down the crazy thoughts parading in your head in an organized manner. My dad would say you must use correct grammar and not use too many commas. You must make someone want to keep reading and make them angry when it’s over. You must be honest, real but keep some secrets. Your language must be exciting, intellectual but nothing too fancy that will make people feel stupid and create resentment towards you. You must love what you’re doing, what you’re writing, what you’re creating or else it will be garbage. You must be relentless. You must be flexible. You must politely and aggressively disregard the haters. You must be relatable, quotable but still unique. You must know what you’re doing is worthy, even if it’s just for you-the writer.

By my standards, Chuck Palahniuk is the poster boy of good writing. I based everything in the above paragraph off of how I feel when I read his books. He’s able to do all of these things for me, even inspire me to write while I’m reading his books. Since I’ve recently blown through three of his fabulous books, hence my first post in over three months. Writing is something I remember fondly and I don’t know what I was thinking in stopping. I could tell you that “I was busy” but I know you don’t want to hear a dumb excuse. In the spirit of  the “new year” I’ve decided to create some resolutions. I’ve actually written about those before, and this year I’m taking my own advice when creating my resolutions. Number one is “write more”. Sounds simple but I’m not one for commitment. But as I see text fill up this box it makes me giddy. 2011 being a very transitional year for me, I think it is high time to “write more”, and maybe use “write more” as a metaphor for “live more”.  Live more. Experience more. Because that’s where good writing comes from anyway. Hopefully you’ll see some more of that from me soon. Happy new year to all of you who will actually read this after my leave of absence.

minutia

There was that one minute sometime

near the end of the last millenium.

It was evening, and I was in my

bedroom coloring my body with Rose Art markers

and the color that was soaking in my skin like

a sponge in bubble bath water.

And there was that minute in the living room

in the end of a decade.

We were squeezed on the couch, listening

to Mr. Obama declaring “This is

your victory,” and

we finally had a black President.

I would definitely mention a minute

spent in one exhibit of Manhattan’s

MOMA, staring at the

MONOCHROMATIC ABSTRACTION

puzzled, and later

considering a career a modern “artist”, and

I would also include one of those

minutes when I cried in the day and

couldn’t stop because no one loved me

except someone loved me but some love

wasn’t complete love so some love wasn’t enough love,

and I wanted someone better to love me―

just like that minute today, when I saw

a friend longing for someone to love her,

and I saw and hugged her tightly

until she felt important and loved

at least by me―that was a minute well

spent. Yes, that was love.

where are you from?

Where I’m From

by George Ella Lyon

I am from clothespins,
from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the back porch.
(Black, glistening,
it tasted like beets.)
I am from the forsythia bush
the Dutch elm
whose long-gone limbs I remember
as if they were my own.

I’m from fudge and eyeglasses,
from Imogene and Alafair.
I’m from the know-it-alls
and the pass-it-ons,
from Perk up! and Pipe down!
I’m from He restoreth my soul
with a cottonball lamb
and ten verses I can say myself.

I’m from Artemus and Billie’s Branch,
fried corn and strong coffee.
From the finger my grandfather lost
to the auger,
the eye my father shut to keep his sight.

Under my bed was a dress box
spilling old pictures,
a sift of lost faces
to drift beneath my dreams.
I am from those moments–
snapped before I budded –
leaf-fall from the family tree.

Where I’m From

I am from big brothers,

From bikes and Barbie Jeeps.

I am from trying everything at least once:

Softball, soccer, gymnastics, ballet, and piano.

I am from asthma, plaguing my life,

But learning to deal.

I am from making messes,

But never cleaning them up.

I am from the smell of soy sauce meaning one of my favorite dinners.

I am from writing stories, visiting far away lands with just a pen and paper.

I am from Hong Kong Market and the Dollar Store; I was always chilly.

I am from family gatherings, Thanksgiving and Christmas, every year like clockwork.

I am from church and cheerios, my attention a wandering fly.

I am from “Baby Blue”

And “I love you, Daddy”

From “Charissey” to

“Know what I mean, jelly bean?”

I am from pigtails and dresses.

The girliest girl,

Who played with the boys.

From growing up too fast,

Elementary school a blur,

But cherishing some moments,

Clear as the blue, Texas sky.

I wrote that in 2007. How time flies.

modern day fairy tales are depressing

She wasn’t special. She wasn’t pretty. No one liked her or wanted anything to do with her. She was completely alone.

Boerne was a small town, so everyone knew her. Elle, the strange girl that didn’t seem to fit in anywhere. Everyone knew her story, her mom died of an overdose when she was young, her dad remarried the rodeo queen of Boerne, and offed himself shortly after, leaving little Elle alone with a confused and aching stepmother who thought taken out drunken anger on her helpless stepdaughter was the best outlet. Everyone knew what she went through, but everyone pretended they didn’t to get to sleep at night. Boerne was a small town where everyone liked to act the same; acknowledging Elle would make you different, which in Boerne made you a nobody.

Elle told herself everyday that she wasn’t special, that she wasn’t pretty, that no one liked her and that she was all alone, after being told the same thing by her step mother and daughters everyday. Today was the first day of school, so Elle was told two extra times that she was worthless.

But her day was not only extraordinary in that way, because for the first time in her life someone looked at Elle. Really noticed her. He saw her perfect brown curls and her utterly unique clothes, probably home made. He saw her walking with her head pointed down, and saw her glance up just for a moment. He gazed into her lonely, longing, beautiful green eyes. He wondered why he hadn’t seen her before.

She was moving quickly though the halls avoiding eye contact with the cold souls she passed. She looked up for a moment at Connor West. Charming Connor. She’d seen him talking to her horrible sisters before and knew from his nickname, company, and reputation that he was one in the same, even though his music interests on Facebook were unique to their high school, yet almost identical to Elle’s. As she looked up at him she would have sworn that he was looking back, but she knew her eyes were just playing games. She was moving quickly. So quickly that she didn’t notice her iPod falling out of her pocket, silently and gracefully falling at Connor West’s feet.

Reaching down, he noticed the little star sticker on the back had “Elle” written neatly on it, and Connor thought he knew an Elle, but couldn’t put a name to a face. He scrolled through to further identify the person. He found all of the same random, weird music he listened to on the mystery iPod and knew immediately that he must find her, so he looked through the notes and found “Elle’s Schedule” saved. He strolled to her Calculus class hopefully to finally find someone who shared his musical tastes.

Being Charming Connor, he barged into first period Calculus with not protest of the teacher, and held the iPod up asking for the owner.

Before Elle could look up from the problem, both her stepsisters jumped up, both claiming it was theirs.

“Oh I didn’t know you liked all these artists, who’s your favorite, and what’s your favorite album?”

They were speechless and clueless to the answer to Connor’s “dumbfounding” question. He just moved on with his interrogation:

“Why is ‘Elle’ on the back of your iPod anyway?”

At the mention of her name, Elle turned and looked at Connor for the first time, seeing him holding up her silver iPod with the pink sticker on the back.

“That’s mine,” she said calmly as Connor and the rest of the room turned to look at her with intrigue and horror.

The lonely green eyes from this morning stared back at Connor as she stood up and took back her music.

“Elle. I’m Connor,” he said flashing her a charming smile and extending a hand, ” You have good taste in music.”

And for once she smiled. And she was special. And she was pretty. And someone wanted her.

Elle stopped listening to her stepmother and sisters’ lies. Elle stopped listening to her own lies.

She was special, beautiful, wanted.