Addicted to Donuts.

“I was downing two a day for a while!” she screamed as her hands forced her curly blond bangs back behind her ear. “Are you serious?” I asked with a face of bewilderment because there was no way this skinny girl before me could eat two donuts a day. “Yes,” she said, exasperated. “I’m serious. I get one on the way to chem class and one on the way back from physics; every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.” I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, trying to add up the calories per donut and do the math. Her metabolism must be faster than the speed of sound. “So, that’s why you gave them up for lent?” I asked. She rolled her eyes, twirled her wiry hair around her finger and said, “yes. I need to stop eating them before I gain four hundred pounds.” Typical Leigh, always exaggerating, I thought. This was just like the time she swore she would not buy another pair of sparkly sandals, because she already had six and any more seemed ridiculous.

A few days past since our conversation and we were in the dining hall. Our trays overflowed with pasta, salad, French fries, cookies and all other collegiate dining hall staples. I left the table to get more water and saw two of my friends from calculus class. We chatted for a few minutes in the middle of the chaos of the dining hall and then I returned to our table. “Apparently I had homework in my calculus class I didn’t know about,” I said and waited for Leigh’s usual snort and remark about how if I remember anything, it’s a miracle. But she was staring off into space until I said, “Leigh. What are you thinking about?” Before she could give me an answer, I turned towards her and saw traces of cinnamon sugar on her lips. Then I looked down at her hands, propped up on her tray because they were covered in glaze and she was preventing it from getting on her clothes. Finally, I see rainbow sprinkles littering her tray. “Leigh!” I yell, “did you eat three donuts while I was gone??” She wiped off her lips and fingers with several napkins and shrugged, “it’s Sunday, let’s just pretend today is a mini-Easter, ok?”

Mark Doty Reflection

I really enjoyed the Mark Doty poetry reading; I can see why the English Department made such a big deal of his visit. He seemed like a very down to earth person who had a lot to share about his personal life and his life as a poet, though he was hesitant to call himself one. One thing that really stuck out to me was what he said about artists. He mentioned that the way artists live, write and compose is by finding the peculiarity in the world. They don't let the grass just be grass; they question everything and refuse to settle for simple conclusions. I thought this questioning was a very true and unique observation about the life of an artist.

He said how he loves to write about animals and tries something different from other "animal poets" because he feels they are such an important part of life and offer so many different view points. For the little mammoth poem, he found the only way he could communicate his message was to have the mammoth speak for itself. I love that conclusion; that he would have to give something speechless, words.

In high school he used words because they were all he could control; he found he could express himself and it became a necessity for him. I think there is something beautiful in the idea of writing because we need to. It is such a healthy way to express and understand our feelings and thoughts.

The "House of Beauty" poem was my favorite one that he read. The really vivid imagery created strong visuals and I like that he transformed the old form of a children song/story. That made it very interesting to follow the structure of the stanzas in that specific pattern. I also really enjoyed "Heaven for Paul," I felt like I could really sense his character, perceptive but still cynical.

Coyotes

This is why I need new friends, I think as I run down the stairs, two at a time. They are stupid to already be drunk at 5pm, but I haven’t seen them all break and they are always entertaining when they are drunk. I am especially looking forward to Bridget’s Bill Cosby impressions and Kristen’s one woman rendition of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. As I hop into the car and drive away, I wonder what counts as “terribly wrong”…I laugh as I imagine that Bridget tied Kristen’s shoes together and they can’t figure out why she keeps falling over.

Even as kids, Bridget always picked on Kristen. From taking her Barbie’s clothes to making her be the dog when we played house, Bridget always gave Kristen the short end of the stick. I have always been the peacekeeper in our trio, and I guess tonight will be no exception.

Damn red lights, I think tapping my foot anxiously on the gas pedal. I still can’t believe they want me to go to Richie Park Elementary. I haven’t been there since our last day of high school. The playground was our place to make up stories about our future husbands, slay imaginary dragons and vow that college would not change our friendships. Ha, nothing has changed at all, I think as drive straight through the stop sign without a thought, even the cops do it. I drive up the treacherously steep hill that we biked up millions of times, pull into the abandoned lot and put the car in park.

It’s unusually dark out for 5pm in March and windy too. I head across the overgrown soccer field towards the forgotten, old, wooden playground, displaced by the newer, shinier, plastic one. I listen for their drunken voices, no doubt screaming about something as stupid as their favorite American Idols or who bought their converses first. But there is only silence. I try to ignore the goosebumps that begin to overtake my body. It had to be a joke, I reassure myself. They never get into real trouble; they just like beer a little too much and forget where they live every once in a while. That, I am used to. But this eerie silence on the playground, I am not used to.

No voices. No squeaky swings. No empty beer cans. No Bridget or Kristen. Until…

A blood-curdling scream comes from the trees across the field. I whip my head around and see Bridget come tearing across field, with Kristen right on her heels. They catch up to me in seconds, scream “RUN, ALISON” and I sprint alongside them, straight to the playground and up on the monkey bars. It is not till now that I look back to the trees. A pack of coyotes is tearing across the field towards us. Finally, one of the imaginary games we played as children has come true. We are stranded on top of the monkey bars and the coyotes our local park ranger warned us about so many years ago have finally decided to prove themselves to be real.

Black Watch Plaid

Up and down, fat and lumbering black lines chase after nimble navy ones.
Side to side, rich forest green lines pursue sadder, paler ones.
Duct tape haphazardly holds together the shambles some would call a skirt.
A bold and rebellious teal button is sewn with ambition on the front of the kilt.
The imprisoned length will never dare to exceed the girl’s bitten-nail fingertips.

The kilt intently wraps around the skinny young girl, binding her to a history of nuns.
The defiant duct tape and tenacious teal button cry out for diversity, for creativity.
Hems fall loose and sag as do dreams in this decrepit, dying building gasping for air.
Plaid permeates the impressionable and eager school girls, uniting them in their strife.
The ancient waistline does not budge; no room for alterations in this school.