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Tuesday, 10 February 2009

  • Mood in a Place: Starbucks

    One step through the door and you are assaulted with the aroma of freshly crushed beans; a scent which whispers of the exotic and erotic. I am not much of a sipper, never have been. Chattering in a cluster, the ladies dressed in bright, expensive sweaters sip at their coffee. “Sit at Starbucks, have coffee, and look important,” shrieks the one who has the beginnings of the infamous old-lady perm. A woman parading past the group, her designer purse on display, sips at her coffee. I guzzle, throwing the scalding beverage down my throat. I love the heat and promised adventure of the smooth river, not trickling, but raging, inside.

    Sinking into the plush velour of the armchair, worn just-so, the surrounding sounds wash over me like a sleep inducing CD of the ocean. The petty conversations, subtle clinking of keys on laptops, clank of heels against granite alternating with the dampened squash they make on contact with the thin carpet found in all public places during the Midwest winter, tinker of dishes, shouts of “decaf non-fat espresso, grande, hold the whip!” and other similar coded Starbucks terms all form a calming, repetitive wave of sound; it is enough to lose yourself within.

    Despite the calculated bumps and grooves of the protective sleeve, the warmth of the coffee seeps into my fingertips, an interesting contrast to the sensation of the cool, expertly sanded, wood of the armrest.

    It’s sneaky really, the use of contemporary mood lighting Starbucks has employed. Expertly, it creates the same shadows, intimacy, and quiet allure for sophistication as candles, but without the hazardous potential. It’s meant to seduce, much like the muted trumpet’s lazy jazz dancing across the collection of mismatched chairs, into the ears each person sitting and sipping.

    Need more evidence of Starbucks’ clever deceit? The paint colors screaming of South America are likely chosen from a cornucopia of snappy names such as, “Dark Espresso,” “Caramel Macchiato,” and “Mint Latte;” all offered in the franchises’ ‘getting started’ manual. Purposefully artsy prints picked from the following page act as windows, allowing each sipper to peer out from their seat onto Amsterdam, Berlin, or Paris. As for the organic curves of the ceiling, reminiscent of Florence? Page seven.

Tuesday, 27 January 2009

  • The Life of a Pencil Sharpener

    In the factory, she was told what to expect: sweaty palms groping at her turner; harsh glares in response to her unavoidable grinding; ugly words muttered above her silver shell as she accidentally broke off another pencil tip. Much like a daughter on her wedding night, whose mother has just revealed the secrets of the honeymoon, the warnings did little to curb her enthusiasm.

    Months later, installed into neat corner beside a hefty looking desk, a new reality began to take shape. Each scratch of a pencil she heard, heightened by the echoes created within the confines of her metallic skin, was made by an enemy never even whispered about during her assembly: the mechanical pencil.

     

Saturday, 08 March 2008

  • I don’t know if you remember me,
    But I remember you.
    How strange you seemed!
    How foreign you were!
    A wise soul from the past.

    You called me dear
    And told me stories;
    Knew the answers
    To my questions
    And my thoughts.

    Claimed a life of a scholarly monk,
    Your only purpose and desire this;
    To spread knowledge
    To all people;
    A noble task indeed.

    But a year later,
    It is not your intellect
    Which keeps you tugging at my mind;
    It’s that lonely look that was trapped in your eyes,
    That sorrowful note in your voice.
    The tragic realization that you had forgone
    All hope of love.

    So today I come
    Carrying a strange idea;
    Why not go to Turnabout with me?
    Who’s to say what old man Fate
    Could have stored up his sleeves?

    *Written 2/23/08  I was asking a guy I hadn't seen in over a year to Turnabout and dropped this poem, a note, and a rose on his doorstep - he said yes!

  • Old Clothes and New Smiles

    “No Mom, he said in class that cotton is the fabric of death like…50 times. We’re going to have to hit up Wal-Mart or something this weekend so I can buy some clothes that won’t result in me dying.” I informed her, attempting to convey the importance of purchasing polyester clothes.

     

    My mom gave me an exasperated look; she had no idea what I was getting into cost wise when I had signed up for the school’s adventure studies class, and the news was coming as a bit of a shock.

     

    “It’s not as bad as you think!” I said, trying to counter her thoughts. “I’ve already got a pair of pants and a couple of tops! We’re just going to need to buy a few more bottoms and maybe one more top layer…”

     

    “Lara…,”

     

    “Or…do you have any old clothes that I could borrow?”

     

    “I don’t know. I gave most of them to Good Will when they didn’t sell at the garage sale last year.” Quickly turning on her heal, my mom left me standing in order to search her wardrobe for any garments that had escaped her desires for a clean and updated closet. Not even 30 seconds later, I heard my name being yelled from the top of the stairs, a clear indication that I should get my butt up there while she was still willing to help me. Before I could even make it into the closet though, my mom’s arm shot out with a couple of hangers of clothes.

     

    “I still have some of my old clothes! We’re in luck!”

     

    “Mom! How high is the waist on these things?” I asked, holding a pair of pants up to my body in the mirror. She was still engrossed in searching for clothes however, so I quickly striped and slithered into the old style black pants, looking to find out where the waist line hit myself.

     

    “Oh yeah!” I said in am exaggerated sexy voice. “These pants are hot!” She turned to find me standing superhero style, hands on hips with a wide stance, and gave me a smile.

     

    “Oh yes, definitely hot!” Was her sarcastic reply.

     

    “Wait wait! Give me one of the tops too!” She passed a silky teal one over to me which I slipped on. Quickly, I readapted my pose.

     

    “Now, I am complete! I’m thinking that I should wear this to school tomorrow, what do you think?” She laughed at the absurdity of my outfit and the looks she imagined I would receive, especially from my best friend, Emma.


               “Oh! For sure Lara!” The kidding tone continued along with her laughter. “Emma would kill you if you came to school in that! You know how she can’t stand to be near you when you dress crazy!” She was really laughing now, mouth open and a hand at her side for support.

     

    I forced my eyes wide and asked her innocently, “What, you don’t think I look pretty Mommy?”

     

    We both laughed. The fact of the matter was, I did not look too pretty at that moment, quite the opposite actually.

     

    “Guys, be quiet! I’m trying to sleep!” My sister’s voice yelled accusingly, muffled through the wall splitting our closet and her bedroom.

     

    “Sorry Ash!” I shouted to the wall, a smile still upon my lips.

     

    “We’re going to bed!” Hollered my mom in agreement, trying to look sorry herself. And so we just looked at each other in our mandated silence; a silence that lasted all of six seconds as laughter broke through the barriers of our tight-lipped mouths and clamped hands, flooding the air as we held onto each other for the first time in years.

                 “Guys!!!”

    * Written for a flash fiction assignment in my creative writing class.

Tuesday, 08 January 2008

  • I love ya.

             Iloveya,
             Iloveya,
             Iloveya.
    The women whimpered,
             voice getting weary,
             a feeling of loneliness rising.

    He did not want to see her.
    He did not love her.

    But that did nothing to dim
    Her passion,
    Her fever.
    Which
             knocked her down at night,
             beat like a gloved fist against her ribs.

    And so she stood
              mindless in her love,
    Staring in front of her
              out of hollow eyes.

    **Found poetry assignment for the novel Song of Solomon. We had to write a poem using any words from the novel, only catch, the words could not be rearranged.

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comedancewithmedarling

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    • Name: Renée
    • Birthday: 9/6/1989
    • Gender: Female
    • Member Since: 7/30/2007

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