A case of you, by Sprouty.
disclaimer: a story inspired by the television series Once and Again (thank you writers, creators, actors and all). A new story or just the retelling of an old one, from a different pov. "Rashomon!" , feedback please. And although the beginning starts with a story arc parellel to the show, it doesn't quite follow "the official" story arc later on...umm.
"In the blue TV screen light
I drew a map of Canada
Oh Canada-ahh
And your face sketched on it twice
oh you're in my blood like holy wine
Oh and you taste so bitter but you taste so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you
I could drink a case of you darling
And I would still be on my feet
Oh I would still be on my feet
Oh I am a lonely painter
I live in a box of paints
I'm frightened by the devil
And I'm drawn to those ones that ain't afraid
I remember that time that you told me, you said
"Love is touching souls"
Surely you touched mine
"Cause part of you pours out of me
In these lines from time to time", Joni Mitchell
THE REAL TRUTH
I think back to the beginning from time to time and I wonder when the real beginning was. Was it the almost-kiss? Because in a way that kiss closed something in my life that although it had a right to be, it had no place for existence in reality, and maybe I was relieved to find I didn't want the kiss maybe as much as I thought I needed it. That near kiss was a turning point, it made me see what it was I did want. And maybe it wasn't what I thought it would be. The time at the wedding reception, our parents wedding reception, when Eli and I-- , but then I question that possibly it was much earlier than that where our story began. The preamble to our story. Maybe it started that summer with Jared at writing camp. When I learned to fly, and fall. Or was something always leading up to this, our ending. Our beginning. August has told his story in the printed medium, but we haven't reached that point yet and I want, I want to tell him mine. So this is an attempt. To be honest. To reach across the silent barrier we put up and tell the truth. My mother, she asked me what it was that happened exactly the night before the meeting with the school board. With tears in her eyes she asked for the truth, the truth of my junior year and I couldn't answer her then. Because maybe as much as I didn't want it to show, I was still scared. I was protecting him, or so I thought and maybe that was wrong. I didn't want her to know everything because everything was wrong and I knew it. A still raw gapping wound when she asked, was there anyway that would not seem vulgur and crase to explain such a story? To someone who possibly would never understand. I was scared there wouldn't ever be. At all costs I could not let her know that I was scared. She needed to know I was okay, that was what she really needed to know. But now it's so far in the past, like that Alanis Morisette song- "under rug swept", that I want to write it down and have some record. Because I never want to forget. I never want to forget my Mr.Dimitri. So my mind brings back the things that happened as if I were watching a teleplay and I narrate.
I was just so tired. It was just one of those days when you fight to keep your eyes open in the class as the teacher drones on. I'm sure Eli's car wrecking, Mom's asking for help with her resume, Judy over,like all hours, (actually a semi-bright spot) and Dad's calls to reassure us he was not about to forget us for some new baby (although he never pointedly said this..I infer it ) didn't help, but basically I was just tired. Not a crime. "Well. I got through your journals." Mr.Dimitri turned as he spoke with a stack of books in his arms, he started to pass them out clockwise round the room. I yawned. There was no alterior motive in this! But it happened as I pulled my hand away I caught his eyes on me. I didn't think he would say anything. I thought wrong. He started to smile, that bemused unreadable smile of his I'd seen before. I thought he was going to be nice. He handed me my book and, "But--enough about me. How did you feel? About the experience."
Did he mean me? He was looking at me and smiling. I don't think Mr.Dimitri had ever stood before me, me directly, and looked. If he did I never noticed. Earlier in the day I had been wondering if he would be impressed with what I had written. I thought my journal entries were quite good, interesting, well balanced. I looked together on paper. He was smiling so --
"Me?". He waited. Which is something I would come to admire, well sometimes. It was only a brief second lapse, but I thought he was cute. That's the word I thought. I was enjoying this attention. "Well I've kept journals before, so--", (I think I even smiled back at him). Ha.
"Oh you have?" I was slightly confused I mean just how long had he been teaching Creative Writing? They make you write ridiculous journals (not the real kind, the kind I wrote and kept, tucked away ) from practically freshman year on, at some point, in some class. And if he had read My Journal he would have read about my writing camps. Not that it really impressed anyone at all, but I had written in ink right there in the journal.
"Yes off and on", I answered, but I was talking to the back of his jacket --now and he was moving on. Or so I thought. I never really did know where I stood with Mr.Dimitri. He was handing out another journal and I thought that he was through with me.
"So--what d'ya think, what's that like?" Did he still mean me? I was watching him and as I caught his profile bending to hand another journal back I saw he was still smiling. He was a fairly interesting teacher. He was different. I wanted to talk with him. I never thought about wanting to talk with him until I was.
"It's --fine. It's nice". He stopped, frozen in place. I saw right away I had clearly said something wrong. I didn't realize the what. why? why not? but his sudden stop implied an error of judgement on my part. And I was slightly scared of him. I blinked, for lack of a better nervous twitch. Why was it so quiet. Why was it a darked, rainy day outside and the classroom so dull. Why did I say that? Oh my God, what if I had not said it.
"I'm sorry. I thought you said "nice."
Mr.Dimitri spun around to look at me. I was starting to not like that so much. He was upset with me. And it couldn't just be about the nice. I assumed he was just a hard ass , and we had read him wrong. Just wanting this unexpected interaction to be over, "I said nice".
I hadn't meant it to sound that way when I started to say it. It just came out more challenging, colder, emphasized then I intended. It wasn't what I meant at all. I just wanted to forget this whole discussion, and fool I was then -I thought I would. Like, as soon as I was out in the hall. At my locker.
"I don't want to misquote you, or anything--". Now that was not nice. The smile I had thought to be in kindness was hiding an obvious sarcasism. He didn't care what I was saying, he was just looking for someone to attack, obviously something was bothering him completely unrelated to us his class, and I was it. The victim. Today's sacrifice. Before I thought what I was doing I had snapped back, "I said nice." I was just so tired.
But I wanted to talk back to him! I wanted to be in trouble. I wanted something to happen. Maybe I wanted to wake up. Eli had a DUI, Jessie had anorexia-- I never really had anything of my own before. Rebellion in Creative Writing class it was. But I never planned any of it, and I never thought in the split second it took for me to answer him any of these things. It was automatic. Over the summer I had changed. I had learned to argue with those older and presumably wiser than me (my parents, Rick.. ) trying to futily save the one thing they could not take, my opinion. But I had never voiced any anger to another adult before outside my family, not like this. In public. In the quiet of a classroom. Then again, I guess maybe I expected him to not even hear my rejoinder. I didn't know he would listen to me.
"Nice." Oh I hated this voice and his suddenly too large eyes. And his cruel smile. I hated August Dimitri. He could have let me be. He had to turn that voice on me. "Let's see. Whatever shall I do today. I know; I shall write in my boring old journal, and it will be ever so nice."
As soon as he had sat and put his stupid theatrical hands to his face- didn't he realize how weird that looked?, the class had start reacting to him. So I guess he won. I guess I helped him win. The class was laughing and I was mortified. So I smiled, a fraudulent smile. Like it was okay that he used me. But then as he walked away and turned suddenly he looked serious, and sat on the edge of his desk.
"Nice is for shrimp salads, and grandmothers. I'm not interested in nice", the ending more gentle. Strong, forceful yet gentle.
And neither was I. I smiled a little longer, until the focus was off me. Until I thought about it, and him all through my next class. It bothered me the way he had looked right at me when he said "boring". Obviously he wasn't worth giving the time of day if he didn't like my thoughts, my journal or at least have any respect for them. But he was a good teacher. I had liked him right away, right from his introduction of himself. His class was my favorite of the course load so far. I hadn't looked at his notes on my weeks journal entries. To have him catch me looking in class, it would have been unbearable. No doubt he would have had a smart comment to make. I had pushed the book under my binder. But later in the class as he talked from this desk I noticed him once quickly covertly not aware the observation, look at me. He almost looked sorry. Sorry that he singled me out. But even in that moment of annoyance with him I was not sorry that he had done any of the things he did. And I was almost looking forward to the next day. And I didn't plan on discussing him at home that night. Home? I never expected him to enter my home. That place away from things scholastic. Or that he would enter in all the doors I thought were closed , at least for him.
disclaimer: a story inspired by the television series Once and Again (thank you writers, creators, actors and all). A new story or just the retelling of an old one, from a different pov. "Rashomon!" , feedback please. And although the beginning starts with a story arc parellel to the show, it doesn't quite follow "the official" story arc later on...umm.
"In the blue TV screen light
I drew a map of Canada
Oh Canada-ahh
And your face sketched on it twice
oh you're in my blood like holy wine
Oh and you taste so bitter but you taste so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you
I could drink a case of you darling
And I would still be on my feet
Oh I would still be on my feet
Oh I am a lonely painter
I live in a box of paints
I'm frightened by the devil
And I'm drawn to those ones that ain't afraid
I remember that time that you told me, you said
"Love is touching souls"
Surely you touched mine
"Cause part of you pours out of me
In these lines from time to time", Joni Mitchell
THE REAL TRUTH
I think back to the beginning from time to time and I wonder when the real beginning was. Was it the almost-kiss? Because in a way that kiss closed something in my life that although it had a right to be, it had no place for existence in reality, and maybe I was relieved to find I didn't want the kiss maybe as much as I thought I needed it. That near kiss was a turning point, it made me see what it was I did want. And maybe it wasn't what I thought it would be. The time at the wedding reception, our parents wedding reception, when Eli and I-- , but then I question that possibly it was much earlier than that where our story began. The preamble to our story. Maybe it started that summer with Jared at writing camp. When I learned to fly, and fall. Or was something always leading up to this, our ending. Our beginning. August has told his story in the printed medium, but we haven't reached that point yet and I want, I want to tell him mine. So this is an attempt. To be honest. To reach across the silent barrier we put up and tell the truth. My mother, she asked me what it was that happened exactly the night before the meeting with the school board. With tears in her eyes she asked for the truth, the truth of my junior year and I couldn't answer her then. Because maybe as much as I didn't want it to show, I was still scared. I was protecting him, or so I thought and maybe that was wrong. I didn't want her to know everything because everything was wrong and I knew it. A still raw gapping wound when she asked, was there anyway that would not seem vulgur and crase to explain such a story? To someone who possibly would never understand. I was scared there wouldn't ever be. At all costs I could not let her know that I was scared. She needed to know I was okay, that was what she really needed to know. But now it's so far in the past, like that Alanis Morisette song- "under rug swept", that I want to write it down and have some record. Because I never want to forget. I never want to forget my Mr.Dimitri. So my mind brings back the things that happened as if I were watching a teleplay and I narrate.
I was just so tired. It was just one of those days when you fight to keep your eyes open in the class as the teacher drones on. I'm sure Eli's car wrecking, Mom's asking for help with her resume, Judy over,like all hours, (actually a semi-bright spot) and Dad's calls to reassure us he was not about to forget us for some new baby (although he never pointedly said this..I infer it ) didn't help, but basically I was just tired. Not a crime. "Well. I got through your journals." Mr.Dimitri turned as he spoke with a stack of books in his arms, he started to pass them out clockwise round the room. I yawned. There was no alterior motive in this! But it happened as I pulled my hand away I caught his eyes on me. I didn't think he would say anything. I thought wrong. He started to smile, that bemused unreadable smile of his I'd seen before. I thought he was going to be nice. He handed me my book and, "But--enough about me. How did you feel? About the experience."
Did he mean me? He was looking at me and smiling. I don't think Mr.Dimitri had ever stood before me, me directly, and looked. If he did I never noticed. Earlier in the day I had been wondering if he would be impressed with what I had written. I thought my journal entries were quite good, interesting, well balanced. I looked together on paper. He was smiling so --
"Me?". He waited. Which is something I would come to admire, well sometimes. It was only a brief second lapse, but I thought he was cute. That's the word I thought. I was enjoying this attention. "Well I've kept journals before, so--", (I think I even smiled back at him). Ha.
"Oh you have?" I was slightly confused I mean just how long had he been teaching Creative Writing? They make you write ridiculous journals (not the real kind, the kind I wrote and kept, tucked away ) from practically freshman year on, at some point, in some class. And if he had read My Journal he would have read about my writing camps. Not that it really impressed anyone at all, but I had written in ink right there in the journal.
"Yes off and on", I answered, but I was talking to the back of his jacket --now and he was moving on. Or so I thought. I never really did know where I stood with Mr.Dimitri. He was handing out another journal and I thought that he was through with me.
"So--what d'ya think, what's that like?" Did he still mean me? I was watching him and as I caught his profile bending to hand another journal back I saw he was still smiling. He was a fairly interesting teacher. He was different. I wanted to talk with him. I never thought about wanting to talk with him until I was.
"It's --fine. It's nice". He stopped, frozen in place. I saw right away I had clearly said something wrong. I didn't realize the what. why? why not? but his sudden stop implied an error of judgement on my part. And I was slightly scared of him. I blinked, for lack of a better nervous twitch. Why was it so quiet. Why was it a darked, rainy day outside and the classroom so dull. Why did I say that? Oh my God, what if I had not said it.
"I'm sorry. I thought you said "nice."
Mr.Dimitri spun around to look at me. I was starting to not like that so much. He was upset with me. And it couldn't just be about the nice. I assumed he was just a hard ass , and we had read him wrong. Just wanting this unexpected interaction to be over, "I said nice".
I hadn't meant it to sound that way when I started to say it. It just came out more challenging, colder, emphasized then I intended. It wasn't what I meant at all. I just wanted to forget this whole discussion, and fool I was then -I thought I would. Like, as soon as I was out in the hall. At my locker.
"I don't want to misquote you, or anything--". Now that was not nice. The smile I had thought to be in kindness was hiding an obvious sarcasism. He didn't care what I was saying, he was just looking for someone to attack, obviously something was bothering him completely unrelated to us his class, and I was it. The victim. Today's sacrifice. Before I thought what I was doing I had snapped back, "I said nice." I was just so tired.
But I wanted to talk back to him! I wanted to be in trouble. I wanted something to happen. Maybe I wanted to wake up. Eli had a DUI, Jessie had anorexia-- I never really had anything of my own before. Rebellion in Creative Writing class it was. But I never planned any of it, and I never thought in the split second it took for me to answer him any of these things. It was automatic. Over the summer I had changed. I had learned to argue with those older and presumably wiser than me (my parents, Rick.. ) trying to futily save the one thing they could not take, my opinion. But I had never voiced any anger to another adult before outside my family, not like this. In public. In the quiet of a classroom. Then again, I guess maybe I expected him to not even hear my rejoinder. I didn't know he would listen to me.
"Nice." Oh I hated this voice and his suddenly too large eyes. And his cruel smile. I hated August Dimitri. He could have let me be. He had to turn that voice on me. "Let's see. Whatever shall I do today. I know; I shall write in my boring old journal, and it will be ever so nice."
As soon as he had sat and put his stupid theatrical hands to his face- didn't he realize how weird that looked?, the class had start reacting to him. So I guess he won. I guess I helped him win. The class was laughing and I was mortified. So I smiled, a fraudulent smile. Like it was okay that he used me. But then as he walked away and turned suddenly he looked serious, and sat on the edge of his desk.
"Nice is for shrimp salads, and grandmothers. I'm not interested in nice", the ending more gentle. Strong, forceful yet gentle.
And neither was I. I smiled a little longer, until the focus was off me. Until I thought about it, and him all through my next class. It bothered me the way he had looked right at me when he said "boring". Obviously he wasn't worth giving the time of day if he didn't like my thoughts, my journal or at least have any respect for them. But he was a good teacher. I had liked him right away, right from his introduction of himself. His class was my favorite of the course load so far. I hadn't looked at his notes on my weeks journal entries. To have him catch me looking in class, it would have been unbearable. No doubt he would have had a smart comment to make. I had pushed the book under my binder. But later in the class as he talked from this desk I noticed him once quickly covertly not aware the observation, look at me. He almost looked sorry. Sorry that he singled me out. But even in that moment of annoyance with him I was not sorry that he had done any of the things he did. And I was almost looking forward to the next day. And I didn't plan on discussing him at home that night. Home? I never expected him to enter my home. That place away from things scholastic. Or that he would enter in all the doors I thought were closed , at least for him.
