Concepts for Memory Story

Senselessness of anger

- why seemingly insignificant things can trigger such violent reactions (drop of the towel)

- volatile anger, lashing out at people you love

- what we are liable to be hurt about changes in different people (don't mind bossy, hate counting fail)

Revenge

- how small things to get back at people can make you feel so much better

- why a little pay back disolves anger

- the victim of revenge doesn't even need to know - personal, mental aspect

Competition within a friendship

- bring together causing anger in somebody and need for revenge

- being able to cause anger = power - to know somebody well you know what frustrates them and can use that against them - vulnerability that usually isn't preyed upon

- can't just let something go - friendship is among equals and therefor payback is deserved

Forgiveness

- simple step, even unknowningly made, makes a huge difference

- involves self sacrifice on their part - why do we need this from people?

Stubbornness: Sticking an idea

- infatuation with a concept

- "good idea at the time" or "it made sense in my head" - refusing to think things through or ignore the effects you know will come

- playfulness of the intense determination

- refusal to consider other ideas

Memories

      Charlotte was domineering by nature. Though I was by no means docile, I had found in less than a week into our friendship that it was always easier to simply give in. Since it usually led to fun for me and she had the satisfaction of “winning,” the dynamic worked well enough. Especially in the case, I was particularly lenient to her whims because it was Charlotte’s birthday and she had the intense argumentative ability to convince almost anyone to give her anything she wished. This power of persuasion applied event to me who as a general rule sees no need for more privileges in order on a day when the person in question already gets cake, presents, and usually an awesome hat. Instead, Charlotte was able to wheedle out of complete strangers more than more 5 year olds can get out of their grandmothers.

      Her birthday was January 25th and was, and as late January often is, rather dreary. The clouds were oppressive: a thick blanket of dusty cotton balls, suspended by the aggravating masters of the skies. With the grey came cold, but Charlotte, in characteristic caprice, decided she wanted to go swimming, the words hypothermia and pneumonia never entering her thought process, for though swim and splash tend to be words found in a colorful and bold font and accentuated with an exclamatory mark, shiver is a much meeker word that has a habit of shirking its responsibility to show itself as a potential negative effect. The plan was decided, so I brought my swimsuit to her house dutifully, despite the fact that I was fruitlessly though desperately hoping the plan would be forgotten and accordingly hid the suit in the darkest corner of my bag.

      Alas, the plan was in full swing and although I was given the false hope of a new, much more appealing cooking baking agenda, it was merely an addition, not a new direction for the course of the day’s events. I put on my swimsuit without protest and immediately went outside and jumped into her pool, knowing the heated water would be infinitely superior for my exposed stomach. After sitting alone submerged on the steps into the shallow end and splashing the water with my feet for a curiously immeasurable period of time, I began to fear that Charlotte had moved on to the baking and left me to figure this out on my own, uncomfortable and wet.

      Moments after I got out of the pool, I was proved wrong as she emerged from the house, padded like the giant Stay Puft Marshmallow Man of Ghostbusters. Her arms and legs were bare and fit as always, juxtaposing the unbalanced stuffing around her entire torso. Her stomach was swelled, but at least uniform, a red one piece left over from her days of diving was partially covered by a bright blue bikini. Under the Speedo was an array of at least 20 swimsuits, ruffles and ties causing various bumps and protrusions. The ties of her 8 or 9 bikinis bore a welt into her back, and up top a mess of multicolored strings at the base of her neck, tangled up in her hair like a knot of thin chains that’s impossible untie. She was spontaneously struck by the genius of putting on every swimsuit she owned on, one over the other, simply in the name of theatrics. Although an interesting idea, as soon as she jumped in the pool and realized the weight of her apparel. With the subsequent attempt to remove just one, she also discovered that she had trapped herself, struggling to get off each with my help until she finally gave up and left the last 2 or 3 on, exhausted from the intense wriggling required to liberate herself of the other 20 suits now splayed around the sides of the pool.

      We hung out for the pool for a while, and eventually Charlotte bored and decided she really wanted make the cookie dough sitting in her fridge. Reluctant to get out of the pool and return to the cold, I stayed in when she, dripping, went searching for towels. She returned shivering but wrapped in a fuzzy jade towel and offered me an identical one, but I refused, instead asking her to get back in to postpone the inevitable cold I would have to face. She refused, and after a little back and forth, she started counting backwards from 10. Appalled by the manner she was treating me in, I stayed exactly where I was. At 7 she held my towel over the pool, clearly threatening to drop it in. At 3, she released it, letting it hit the water with a swish, then quickly absorb the water and begin to sink. I stared at her with intense rage, for treating me like a child, for leaving me towel-less (for it never for a second occurred to me she’d get me another one although in actuality she probably would have), and most of all that she had disobeyed the universal laws that dictate that when counting back from 10, you must go to zero and then stop. I probably wouldn’t have appreciated a “1 and a half… 1 and a quarter…” but it would have been far superior to simply stopping at 3. All this anger flashed through me and I was opening my mouth to scream “CHARLOTTTTTTTTE” when she jumped into the pool, towel around her.

      I can’t understand by what processes, but somehow this made it all ok. We flapped around with the towels for another 15 or 20 minutes before I got bored and decided I was ready to face the cold, and she acquiesced when I reminded her of the cookies we were going to make. Instead we ate it raw and played Monopoly. She won, but I had the satisfaction of knowing that I had stolen hundreds of dollars from her while she wasn’t looking. 


Note: In the original mini-version, I talked about getting trapped in a net.  After further reflection, I decided this was probably a figment of my imagination, which is why that section of the story was removed.  

Tobias Wolff?

1) Why did you choose to write about violence so often in your stories?

2) What inspired defining a life in things terms of the things a person didn't think about when they died in Bullet in the Brain?

3) What did the school in Nightingale really do?  Why were there no adults and an incorrect photograph?

Changes in Time

My jacket pocket had caught on the armrest of the seat across the aisle and 4 rows up, and as my hand absentmindedly flapped in the general direction of my mother, I lowered my eyes to survey the damage below the windowsill.

Real time:  I sat down reluctantly, not wanting to be on that bus, wanting to be home in bed, not lying to anybody.  The rough whisk of my jeans rubbing against the cheap, stained seats reminding me of the soft yellow sheets I was leaving behind and their noiselessness.  I saw my mother, filled with hope for me but regret of what she felt she had had to do.  Her waving was rhythmic, constant, mechanical.  She'd started it with spirit, but lost purpose with the redundancy of the motion until she started to resemble those creepy little cats in smaller sushi restaurants.  He mimicked her, they're hands falling in and out of sync but he was as distracted with his torn pocket as she was with the contents of her handbag.

Too many things, too little time: I sat down with a thump, I'm sure, but I didn't hear the noise.  I subconsciously remember waving at my mother, but it was a reflex, certainly not something my attention was focused on.  I was trying to remember when I had first begun to lie.  I couldn't.  I knew I had snuck sweets as a child, and when confronted denied it, but my stories weren't lavish then.  They were much more direct and I had never gotten caught.  It was only when I made larger lies that they ever led me into trouble.  Maybe it was the risk that had gave me the thrill.  Having the power of knowledge.  But I'd always be confused as to why about illnesses, just like the doctor was.  I couldn't explain it, and not being able to understand my own motivations is frightening.  I remember playing whiffle ball in PE one time and despising the game.  I assigned myself to outfield with the intention of boycotting the whole thing and figuring I wouldn't get in trouble if the ball didn't ever come to me.  But then it did.  This scrawny little kid managed to hit the ball straight between my legs while I was daydreaming about a movie I had just seen.  I started sprinting after it, not even noticing what I was doing until after I had thrown the ball to second and gotten him out, being congratulated by my teammates for going so fast as I panted.  And I had no control.  And that terrified me.  I still don't know why I do some things.  So I was on the bus waving idly at my mother and she was waving idly back. 

Time slows: The sound of a popping seam is one of those noises that forces you to freeze, like the moment just after a glass filled with red wine slips, shatters, and spills over a white couch, shards embedding themselves over the leather.  The caution you wish you had shown moments before finally kicks in and your entire body is caught in the horror of what you've just done roughly resembling a Rodin sculpture. This instant I quickly overcame with the shove of the person behind me swiveling around and shoving their backpack into my shoulder and shuffled forward, forgetting who I was, where I was going, who was outside tearfully watching my first moments of involuntary exile.  Everything in my being was focused on that single, minuscule act.  I could feel the armrest against my hipbone, the noise echoing in my mind, the tug on my opposite shoulder as the mass of fabric had been moved as a whole.  I put so much analysis into this flash of time, so much import on the phantom senses that stayed with me that I thought I could remember exactly how that moment felt for the rest of my life.  Of course, as soon as I found an empty seat and looked out the window, I remembered my mother and the memories were erased.  I looked down to  examine the damage and dutifully waved at my mother. 

Time Stands Still

"I boarded the bus and we waved at each other until it became awkward. " -The Liar page 51 "Our Story Begins" by Tobias Wolff 
      My jacket had caught on the armrest of the seat across the aisle and 4 rows up, and as my hand absentmindedly flapped in the general direction of my mother, I lowered my eyes to survey the damage below the windowsill.  The seam had ripped open, making my sad, old jacket even more forlorn.  I slipped it off and over my respectable pants that were already lounging on the seat next to me.  With my dirty sneakers and generic t-shirt I looked like a regular charity case.  I could already smell the ham sandwich of the woman who would sit by me, ready to listen to the boy she saw in front of her.  And who was I to take that story she would want so much to hear from her? 
      She was in her early 40s, visiting her brother and nephews.  The sister-in-law that she had always hated had finally left him.  Her brother was devastated and consequently not looking after his sons properly, the older one, in high school, taking advantage of the lack of supervision and spending all the time that he wasn’t taking care of his much younger brother out of the house with friends.  After a few weeks, their father had finally woken up to this fact and called his sister for help.  Ready to angelically take over their home with a firm hand, she was putting herself in the sympathetic mindset and would be eager to mother me and any other unfortunate children that came across here path before she reached her destination.  
      I’d tell her that my father had died when I was 7, but he had left my mother moments before she was going to tell him she was pregnant.  She would cluck about the bravery of single mothers, disapproving inside and poorly hiding the fact.  He’d died in a car accident, eliciting more sympathy, until I’d reveal that he was drunk at the time and a pregnant woman in the other car was injured.  Here I’d begin to lose her, the story being too tragic and her empathy would soon become confused, leading her to reach towards her knitting needles.  I would have to switch over to my mother.  
      Mom will have run off with a boyfriend, leaving me at a friends house.  This would be a story she knew well for she had run over it many times in her mind while praying for her nephews.  I was taking the bus to meet her, my fare paid for by my friends parents.  The boyfriend had left her, but she’d found a job despite her unreliable resume and her boss had offered us a place to stay.  I’d taper off there, letting her make small remarks she thought could actually help a boy as messed up as I pretended to be and then share her own story (beginning of course, “You know, I have a nephew just about your age.”). 
      A loud cough startled me from my reverie, making my hand fall as all my attention focused on the noise.  A man was standing in the aisle, demanding the seat that my feet were so comfortable in.  He was probably 25, a business man who believed his life to be perfect and wanted nothing to do with those less important than himself.  In his hand is a large packet of papers and a pen.  There will be no story to tell him.  It’s probably for the best, I’ll at least leave mother’s sight before lying again.  Reminded of her, I looked out again, raising my hand, only to find her rummaging through her purse. 

You will stick to two subjects: the weather and everybody's health.

 "She was alone, leaning back in one of the two plastic chairs they'd set out for the incorrigibles, eyes half closed against the afternoon sun." -A Mature Student, page 107 "Our Story Begins" by Tobias Wolff  

      The world is pale, that hopeful weather that at the end of the day leaves you with nothing but despair.  The kind you dress in a t-shirt for, hoping that the more skin you expose the more sun you can absorb, but in the end you're left shivering and searching for a sweater.  The sky has ceased to be blue, but has moved on to a shade of white filled with wisps of cloud, although when you look up, you really have no idea where the cloud began and the clearness ended.  There is no wind because there is nothing to blow.  The trees are bare of leaves and smaller plants have the good sense to stay underground.  The more foolish life forms, namely us, that are still out and about, determined not to acquiesce to the will of Mother Nature, are bundled up against the eerie chill also giving the wind no purchase. It’s not quite cold but certainly uncomfortable, the lack of commitment to one particular state of weather infuriating, like a restaurant goer that continues to change their order long after their water’s pad is filled with scribbles.  The atrium the smokers are banished to is glassed in, yet the smoke twists its way up into the pure, colorless sky rather than a vent that could whisk away the odor and provide some heating: the warm air pushing itself down into the room like a man greeting everyone in a room full of people he pretends to have met before with a fleshy fist instead of the docile rays that are merely going through the motions of warming the world.

Everything's Going to Be OK

      I have a friend who whenever he is sad or scared or tired, will rub his stomach, inform whomever he is talking to, and they will tell him, "Gary, everything is going to be OK." His mom started it and he's been doing it since he was a little boy.  All of his friends are well trained to spout these words in a sympathetic tone when he cues them with "I'm rubbing my stomach right now."  This lie instantly makes him feel comforted from whatever is going on.  Security is found in routines.  Routines just give a false sense of control, telling yourself that life is exactly as you want it because you can make this routine happen again and again.

     Those lies are really the only ones I ever tell.  "I'm almost done with my homework." at 10:30 as my parents are telling me its time for me to go to bed, then taking my laptop back out as soon as I think they're asleep.  I know that I have work I have to do, but it makes them happier thinking that I didn't procrastinate.  Every once and a while, it'll come up, but usually they're just blissful in their ignorance.  I lie when I'm late to places, making up excuses that are either more elaborate or realistic (the opposite of whichever is actually true) out of guilt that I wasn't prompt in my arrival.  Usually these lies aren't even used though, they're just keeping my mind busy so it'll stop making my stomach quiver.  

       Lying isn't really a problem.  Sometimes I feel like I do it too often, but what the people around me have more of a problem with is my honesty.  I have never once hurt a friend by lying to them, but have many times expressed my opinions much too bluntly and upset people I loved.  So maybe lying isn't such a bad thing, and I should do it more often.  Because a false sense of safety and happiness is better than needlessly doubting yourself or the circumstances in when you have no control.  So instead of pointing out the ways they could fail, I'm just going to repeat that everything is going to be alright.

Lying on the Quad in 3009

       Math was short today. Math class is always short.  Equations' attempt at providing truths is just futile.  Science is only slightly better.  People slamming their heads against a wall, attempting to make reason out of a world that just is, doesn't help them.  They're just lying to themselves, and by trying to make sense out of a world where everything is a lie is simply creating more lies.

       Matilda told us a fabulous story the other day.  It was about a man who tried to write a book of events, but ended up caught up in the fabricated substances the subjects of his book made up.  He eventually brought about the end of the world, but managed to live to tell the tale anyways.  It was a good story.  Evidently it almost happened once, but that was a long time ago.  Matilda's my history teacher.  We don't just learn facts like they did in the olden days, we learn about things that could have happened, and the history that would have come from that. That way we can pick our own history.  Its mostly a matter of personal preference

rather than importance anyways.  None of its true, so you might as well have origins that you like.

       English is really the most practical class.  Making up lies is really the only thing you can do in a world already so full of them.  We don't use any of the fancy language they used to use, just straightforward lies to give relief from the complexities of the lies that make up our lives.  Our stories are short and sweet.  As is this one.  So here I am, lying on the fake grass, lying to you.

Victoria

Call me Zoe. Nobody really does, but they could, so why shouldn't you? Even if my name was Zoe, I'm not sure that they'd call me that, I'm just Ginger. I didn't have very many friends when I was young. I was an only chid, so my people skills weren't so great, and most of my time was spent coloring or playing with Barbies, not real girls. Other kids always assumed I was really outgoing because of my crazy orange curls, but I always preferred sitting in the sand box, building castles for the ants I was narrating the lives of.

I started kindergarten shy and awkward when it came to relations with other kids. One boy, Andy, became obsessed with my hair because he liked watching the ringlets bouncing back to form after he pulled on them. I didn't understand his fascination until I went to his house a few weeks later. His sister, Kate, was similarly bizarre: a girl much older than us who viewed redheads as a curiosity and as precious because of their rarity. As soon as she saw me, she screamed "GINGER!" and hugged Andy for bringing home this lovely surprise for her. Kate always referred to me as Ginger, and since I spent so much time with their family, I didn't really notice when it rubbed off on Andy and then all my other friends. I never really asked them to, but everyone around me slowly picked up the habit, assuming that's what I wanted to be called since everyone else did. But I'm not that confused little girl anymore, so I'm not going to let that happen anymore. It's a time for new beginnings.  Starting with renaming myself, or at least letting my parents do the job like they tried to do before. So scratch all that. Call me Victoria.