I just watched All the Real Girls and it depressed me so much! What love story ends with both characters in love with one another, yet not together?
Yet again, another movie that wakes me up to sad reality: that love does not conquer all. At least it did not end like the most classic love story, with a double suicide, like Antony and Cleopatra. Now that would have been a downer...
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Building Sandcastles_REVISED
I haven't posted in a while, so this goes out to "all you" :) I think I posted this story already, but this is the version that I handed in for English class.
His weary eyes followed the flashing, black bar as it made its way back up to the start of the page. Groaning, he watched as his hours of work were slowly wiped off the computer screen. He took his right forefinger from the backspace and moved his hands through his dark, scruffy mop of hair. Maybe his ex-wife was right. This just isn’t worth it. All the pressure, all the headaches. What is the point? He had nothing to write about because he gave up everything important to him just to pursue his dream. Now, even that is gone.
He pushed off the basement floor, sent the empty chair flying across the dimly lit room and watched as it went crashing into the wall. The sound it made when it hit, told him that the chair had created another dent. Another reminder of his inabilities. The dents were the only things that were reliable and consistent.
Taking off his glasses and placing them next to his notepad on the desk, he began to massage his strained eyes. He had been sitting in the same spot for hours and his back was covered in moist perspiration that had now begun to stick to his green dress shirt. With one hand, he pulled the wet shirt away from his back; with the other he picked up his glasses and put them on. He noticed the fingerprints and dust covering them; he had become unaware of the blurriness after hours of staring at a screen. His wife used to bug him about his dirty glasses.
“How can you possibly see anything with so much grit on your glasses? How many fingers am I holding up?” Jan would say with a loving smile and he would follow along with the charade by pretending to be blind as he groped for her hand.
He fumbled for the banister in the dark with his free hand. Feeling the cool medal hit his fingertips, he grasped onto it and made his way up stairs to make a cup of strong coffee. He hated memories. He hated remembering. He somehow managed to drain it in less than a minute, despite its lava-like temperature. When he went to throw his cup in the sink, adding to the overflow of week old dishes, his eyes caught sight of the front lawn. The lawn was in such bad shape that the people in the community seemed to avoid it as they went for their morning walks. Old people would not stop and talk by it, teenagers would not make out near it, kids would not play on it, and dogs would not even pee on it. The shrubs were once trimmed every week, the grass always cut and the flowers… were now buried beneath years of weeds and neglect. He remembered that his wife had taken care of the flowers. Her once loving and happy face would be replaced with a look of disgust. The last time he saw her she was not too happy either.
“You quit? How are you going to support us as a writer? Why don’t you just ask for your old job back?” Jan asked, getting more and more furious when he repeated the same answer over and over, he had made up his mind.
The fight went on for days, but following a week of quiet seething she found him in the kitchen preparing dinner.
“Fine. You made up your mind. It seems that you have your whole life sorted out. I can’t convince you to listen to me, so I too have made up my mind.” He couldn’t turn to face her, he just nodded. He didn’t say anything to prevent her from leaving. Jan moved out a day later. Her packing had been done long before that night.
So now the bright yellow, romantic, little house on the street had become the depressing, little shack with peeling paint that reminded people that the world was not as perfect as suburbia might suggest.
It was as if there was a neon sign on his door that said: “Hide your eyes, keep your children close, for you just might catch this man’s disease.” He had heard the neighbors talking once, they were an old couple so they had trouble hearing each other and had to practically shout to have a conversation. He listened to their shouting match as they talked about him and his lovely wife, how lucky he had been to find such a caring woman and how happy they had been together before he had a “mid-life crisis”. These people spoke about him as if he had died and the spirit he left behind was who he had become. He had become something to be ignored and forgotten, a horrible and depressing entity that refused to move on, a reminder of failure.
What he really needed was to go outside and breathe fresh air. Maybe a walk would clear his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he had even opened the front door.
Stepping outside, he expected all of his neighbors to poke their heads out their doors just to get a look at the crazy, hermit man. The only thing that happed was that he received an instant headache from the sun. He went back inside to get his sunglasses, which were buried beneath a pile of old newspapers that had replaced his dinner table. He glanced at the date on one of the papers and become conscious of the fact that he had no idea what day it was. Stepping back outside he began walking. His neighbor was having a beer on his front porch. John was waving at him, but he ignored John, kept his head down and walked faster. He really didn’t know where he was going, but stopped went he reached the beach. He saw that the bench was powdered with grains of sand, he brushed some of them off, sat down and then he surveyed his surroundings. There was a young man and woman who were having a picnic. He could hear them laughing and felt the familiar pang of jealously. He turned his head away. There were a few other people. A little boy who was having trouble building a sandcastle, someone he assumed to be the little boy’s mother and a few teenagers swimming in the warm water.
“Hello.”
The voice made him jump and he turned to see who had broken the silence. It was a small woman in her eighties who had sat down beside him. He gave her an awkward smile and turned his eyes to the ocean.
“I’m sorry I scared you. I just thought that you might want some company.” She waited for his reply, but never got one. She looked like she was in pain as she struggled to get up, to leave him to his silence. He felt bad, so he turned and told her to stay. They sat there for a while, each one off in their own little world. The lady turned to him and told him that she had never seen anyone look so sad.
“I thought how odd. It’s such a beautiful day. The sun is so bright. It brings everything alive. See, just look at the ocean.” She said this as she pointed with her finger that quivered from the effort of the motion. He looked, but he could not see the beauty that she could so effortlessly. He lied to her when he nodded his head. It did appear to please the old lady. She once again pointed to various things around the beach and spoke about their beauty. He began to tune her out. He focused on the sand at his feet and started to push it around with the toe of his shoe. He took a quick look beside him and saw that the old lady had gone. He noticed that he still had his sunglasses on and that there was no need for them, so he took them off and put them in his pocket. Then, he went back to pushing the sand.
“Excuse me mister?” He looked up to see the little boy who had been trying to build a sandcastle and his mother standing beside him. “I was just wondering if you had something that I could put on my castle.” He glanced over the little boy’s shoulder to see that he had succeeded in building a sandcastle. It wasn’t perfect, but it was standing. He asked the boy how long it took him to build the castle.
Smiling, the little boy said, “A long time. It kept falling down.” The man asked him why he just didn’t give up. The little boy looked at him like he was nuts and said, “If I gave up every time that the sandcastle fell down, I’d never build one.” The mother added, “Think about it, if every time you built a sandcastle it was perfect, then the excitement of building a perfect castle would fade. The effort makes the finished product much more rewarding. Plus, maybe he’ll be an architect someday.” The mother bent and kissed the top of her son’s blond head, smiling as she brushed sand from her lips with the back of her hand. Convinced that the man didn’t have anything to give him, the boy returned to his sandcastle. The little boy’s mother sat down on the bench.
Once, again both parties were off in their own worlds, at least he thought so. After a while, he noticed her eying him with curiosity. “Are you the man who lives in the little yellow house?” He searched her face, looking for any sign of disgust or horror, but when he did not see either, he nodded his head. “I used to be your neighbor, but when my husband died, my parents forced me to move closer to them. I still cannot resist coming back to the ocean though. It has always held a special place in my memories. I met my husband here.” She smiled at him, but her smile did not suggest sadness as he had expected. She looked more wistful as she turned to the ocean and breathed a great sigh. He could practically see her memories written in her expression and he felt uncomfortable around her vulnerability.
“I always wanted a house like yours, it seemed so perfect behind its white picket fence. It stood there as a monument, so safe from outside influence and I envied you.” After a long pause she continued. “I passed the house today. I didn’t think that anyone lived there anymore. It’s good to know that it’s still serving its purpose.” He looked at her then and thanked her. Laughing she replied, “I have not idea what you would be thanking me for, but you’re welcome.” Shivering she said, “It’s getting pretty cold. The ocean has a way of changing the weather instantly. You better get home.” He watched as the boy and his mother walked away and he couldn’t help but smile. He stayed for a little while, until the sun went down and everyone left the beach to return to warm homes. He told himself that it was his time to go too, so he got off the bench and made his way back to his little, yellow house.
When he got inside, he cleaned his glasses then went down stairs. He fetched his chair from across the room, turned on his computer and began writing. He wrote about pursuing dreams, ones that may lead nowhere, finding people who will support your leaps of faith and the importance of embracing the memories that make you who you are; for without them, one cannot exist. But, more importantly he wrote about a little old lady who saw beauty wherever she looked, a widow who convinced a man to escape his ivory tower and a little boy who built imperfect sandcastles all day long.
His weary eyes followed the flashing, black bar as it made its way back up to the start of the page. Groaning, he watched as his hours of work were slowly wiped off the computer screen. He took his right forefinger from the backspace and moved his hands through his dark, scruffy mop of hair. Maybe his ex-wife was right. This just isn’t worth it. All the pressure, all the headaches. What is the point? He had nothing to write about because he gave up everything important to him just to pursue his dream. Now, even that is gone.
He pushed off the basement floor, sent the empty chair flying across the dimly lit room and watched as it went crashing into the wall. The sound it made when it hit, told him that the chair had created another dent. Another reminder of his inabilities. The dents were the only things that were reliable and consistent.
Taking off his glasses and placing them next to his notepad on the desk, he began to massage his strained eyes. He had been sitting in the same spot for hours and his back was covered in moist perspiration that had now begun to stick to his green dress shirt. With one hand, he pulled the wet shirt away from his back; with the other he picked up his glasses and put them on. He noticed the fingerprints and dust covering them; he had become unaware of the blurriness after hours of staring at a screen. His wife used to bug him about his dirty glasses.
“How can you possibly see anything with so much grit on your glasses? How many fingers am I holding up?” Jan would say with a loving smile and he would follow along with the charade by pretending to be blind as he groped for her hand.
He fumbled for the banister in the dark with his free hand. Feeling the cool medal hit his fingertips, he grasped onto it and made his way up stairs to make a cup of strong coffee. He hated memories. He hated remembering. He somehow managed to drain it in less than a minute, despite its lava-like temperature. When he went to throw his cup in the sink, adding to the overflow of week old dishes, his eyes caught sight of the front lawn. The lawn was in such bad shape that the people in the community seemed to avoid it as they went for their morning walks. Old people would not stop and talk by it, teenagers would not make out near it, kids would not play on it, and dogs would not even pee on it. The shrubs were once trimmed every week, the grass always cut and the flowers… were now buried beneath years of weeds and neglect. He remembered that his wife had taken care of the flowers. Her once loving and happy face would be replaced with a look of disgust. The last time he saw her she was not too happy either.
“You quit? How are you going to support us as a writer? Why don’t you just ask for your old job back?” Jan asked, getting more and more furious when he repeated the same answer over and over, he had made up his mind.
The fight went on for days, but following a week of quiet seething she found him in the kitchen preparing dinner.
“Fine. You made up your mind. It seems that you have your whole life sorted out. I can’t convince you to listen to me, so I too have made up my mind.” He couldn’t turn to face her, he just nodded. He didn’t say anything to prevent her from leaving. Jan moved out a day later. Her packing had been done long before that night.
So now the bright yellow, romantic, little house on the street had become the depressing, little shack with peeling paint that reminded people that the world was not as perfect as suburbia might suggest.
It was as if there was a neon sign on his door that said: “Hide your eyes, keep your children close, for you just might catch this man’s disease.” He had heard the neighbors talking once, they were an old couple so they had trouble hearing each other and had to practically shout to have a conversation. He listened to their shouting match as they talked about him and his lovely wife, how lucky he had been to find such a caring woman and how happy they had been together before he had a “mid-life crisis”. These people spoke about him as if he had died and the spirit he left behind was who he had become. He had become something to be ignored and forgotten, a horrible and depressing entity that refused to move on, a reminder of failure.
What he really needed was to go outside and breathe fresh air. Maybe a walk would clear his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he had even opened the front door.
Stepping outside, he expected all of his neighbors to poke their heads out their doors just to get a look at the crazy, hermit man. The only thing that happed was that he received an instant headache from the sun. He went back inside to get his sunglasses, which were buried beneath a pile of old newspapers that had replaced his dinner table. He glanced at the date on one of the papers and become conscious of the fact that he had no idea what day it was. Stepping back outside he began walking. His neighbor was having a beer on his front porch. John was waving at him, but he ignored John, kept his head down and walked faster. He really didn’t know where he was going, but stopped went he reached the beach. He saw that the bench was powdered with grains of sand, he brushed some of them off, sat down and then he surveyed his surroundings. There was a young man and woman who were having a picnic. He could hear them laughing and felt the familiar pang of jealously. He turned his head away. There were a few other people. A little boy who was having trouble building a sandcastle, someone he assumed to be the little boy’s mother and a few teenagers swimming in the warm water.
“Hello.”
The voice made him jump and he turned to see who had broken the silence. It was a small woman in her eighties who had sat down beside him. He gave her an awkward smile and turned his eyes to the ocean.
“I’m sorry I scared you. I just thought that you might want some company.” She waited for his reply, but never got one. She looked like she was in pain as she struggled to get up, to leave him to his silence. He felt bad, so he turned and told her to stay. They sat there for a while, each one off in their own little world. The lady turned to him and told him that she had never seen anyone look so sad.
“I thought how odd. It’s such a beautiful day. The sun is so bright. It brings everything alive. See, just look at the ocean.” She said this as she pointed with her finger that quivered from the effort of the motion. He looked, but he could not see the beauty that she could so effortlessly. He lied to her when he nodded his head. It did appear to please the old lady. She once again pointed to various things around the beach and spoke about their beauty. He began to tune her out. He focused on the sand at his feet and started to push it around with the toe of his shoe. He took a quick look beside him and saw that the old lady had gone. He noticed that he still had his sunglasses on and that there was no need for them, so he took them off and put them in his pocket. Then, he went back to pushing the sand.
“Excuse me mister?” He looked up to see the little boy who had been trying to build a sandcastle and his mother standing beside him. “I was just wondering if you had something that I could put on my castle.” He glanced over the little boy’s shoulder to see that he had succeeded in building a sandcastle. It wasn’t perfect, but it was standing. He asked the boy how long it took him to build the castle.
Smiling, the little boy said, “A long time. It kept falling down.” The man asked him why he just didn’t give up. The little boy looked at him like he was nuts and said, “If I gave up every time that the sandcastle fell down, I’d never build one.” The mother added, “Think about it, if every time you built a sandcastle it was perfect, then the excitement of building a perfect castle would fade. The effort makes the finished product much more rewarding. Plus, maybe he’ll be an architect someday.” The mother bent and kissed the top of her son’s blond head, smiling as she brushed sand from her lips with the back of her hand. Convinced that the man didn’t have anything to give him, the boy returned to his sandcastle. The little boy’s mother sat down on the bench.
Once, again both parties were off in their own worlds, at least he thought so. After a while, he noticed her eying him with curiosity. “Are you the man who lives in the little yellow house?” He searched her face, looking for any sign of disgust or horror, but when he did not see either, he nodded his head. “I used to be your neighbor, but when my husband died, my parents forced me to move closer to them. I still cannot resist coming back to the ocean though. It has always held a special place in my memories. I met my husband here.” She smiled at him, but her smile did not suggest sadness as he had expected. She looked more wistful as she turned to the ocean and breathed a great sigh. He could practically see her memories written in her expression and he felt uncomfortable around her vulnerability.
“I always wanted a house like yours, it seemed so perfect behind its white picket fence. It stood there as a monument, so safe from outside influence and I envied you.” After a long pause she continued. “I passed the house today. I didn’t think that anyone lived there anymore. It’s good to know that it’s still serving its purpose.” He looked at her then and thanked her. Laughing she replied, “I have not idea what you would be thanking me for, but you’re welcome.” Shivering she said, “It’s getting pretty cold. The ocean has a way of changing the weather instantly. You better get home.” He watched as the boy and his mother walked away and he couldn’t help but smile. He stayed for a little while, until the sun went down and everyone left the beach to return to warm homes. He told himself that it was his time to go too, so he got off the bench and made his way back to his little, yellow house.
When he got inside, he cleaned his glasses then went down stairs. He fetched his chair from across the room, turned on his computer and began writing. He wrote about pursuing dreams, ones that may lead nowhere, finding people who will support your leaps of faith and the importance of embracing the memories that make you who you are; for without them, one cannot exist. But, more importantly he wrote about a little old lady who saw beauty wherever she looked, a widow who convinced a man to escape his ivory tower and a little boy who built imperfect sandcastles all day long.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)