Furniture
January 21, 2008Someone warned us to be careful when buying sheets because the beds in the States tend to be longer that the ones in Europe. I bet my mom, the worrywart she is, meticulously scoured all the stores to find the longest sheets, and when she finally did, she bought three sets. In the month prior to my departure, she would often fret whether they will fit. The first night at college, I put the sheets on my bed only to discover that my mom’s fears were not justified at all. However, my happiness was short-lived: they were not wide enough!
10 Photographs I Wish I Had Taken And 10 Sentences I Wish I Had Written
January 21, 2008After toiling for about an hour with the formatting on this blog, I could not organize the images and the text in a way that I consider presentable. Therefore, for the time being, you can access them through the two .doc files I have uploaded. Enjoy!
Maps
January 20, 2008Sweaty, with a shirt of questionable color, the vendor stops at every table in the café. Despite his energetic gesticulations, the café-customers are so engrossed in their mundane conversations that they neither see him nor hear him. Hidden in the shade of my umbrella, I follow him with my eyes, a straw between my lips. What does he sell? Squinting, I focus my attention on his bag: glossy papers rolled as carpets cuddle inside. With continents and oceans! I have The World, Europe and Bulgaria but have always wanted… I run towards him. Excuse me, do you have North America?
First Attempt at Braided Essay
January 17, 2008The small hand of the clock has traveled a quarter of a circle ever since I went to bed. Only the heavy breathing of my parents cuddled in the neighboring room interrupts the quiet or so I think. Feeling something warm and humid in my eyes, I hear sobbing. It is very low and restrained, as if the person is trying not to be heard. Slowly I open my eyes only to realize that what I hear does not happen in my dream. My pillow is wet.
I do not cry when Nisreen tells me that he actually got a new girlfriend just a month after he left everything familiar and deeply loved to go to study in UWC-USA. I am mad, I feel like a naïve fool, my pride is hurt, but I do not cry…or maybe I do, but not as much as I used to. I know he professed his love for someone else, and although it was painful when I found out, gradually I accepted that my life did not take the direction I had so carefully planned. However, I never knew he trampled insolently on the “I will always love you!” so soon.
“I will always love you!” chirp two voices simultaneously. Under the shade of the oak tree, tucked away from the eyes of casual observers, we hug as firmly as we can and rest our heads on each other’s backs. We do not speak but we perfectly know what is on the mind of the other. We are both the happiest and the saddest people in the wide world. At a rate of 90+ beats per second, our hearts exult because we are together in this very moment. However, these same hearts also cry, because soon, oh so soon, we will not be able to touch, smell, kiss, or even see each other. In the fall, he will leave for New Mexico to study for two years in the UWC there. Afterwards, he will go to college somewhere else in the States.
My cheeks burn because of the hot rivulets coming out of my eyes. With effort, I lift the upper half of my body. I sit in bed, with legs crisscrossed, and try to calm myself down. Blood presses my temple; my mind goes crazy and a voice inside me shouts piercingly: “You promised, you promised!” I promised him and myself that I would do anything to fly over the Atlantic and go study in the same country that he does. Travel would be much easier this way and we would get a chance to reunite if not every month, at least during the holidays. Once all the college ordeals are over, we would settle somewhere together, start work, and raise kids. A perfect romantic story!
200 miles separate Middlebury College from Harvard University. Although I live “just above him” right now, over a period of one and a half years we never found time to visit each other; or rather never found the guts. Now he has a Harvard girlfriend, the newest one, and it will be somewhat awkward if the three of us are in the same place at the same time. I also doubt that his new miss will be okay with his coming up to see me. He went back to Bulgaria for Christmas break while I did not so I really missed not being able to chat with him on the phone. Therefore, I sent him a rather innocent Facebook message saying that I miss him, and instead of getting an I-miss-you-too message back, I opened my mailbox to find this e-mail from him saying how much I frustrated him and his girlfriend. “Bullshit”, I thought; nevertheless, I apologized for my lack of self-control. He removed me from his Facebook friends because, I guess, he is too worried that I, with my sick mind, might abuse his wall again. I am actually quite happy – at least I will not be able to see those pictures where he kisses his toothy girlfriend.
We do not hurry with the first kiss. In fact, we hope that by the time he leaves, we will not have kissed at all. It is not that we are shy, or disgusted: we just care for each other so much that we realize that each step that brings us closer now will cause us greater pain later. Despite the desire raging inside, we restrict our affection only to hugs, holding of hands and a lot of time spent together. However, love rarely understands reason and eventually takes its natural course. Recently it has been raining a lot but today the sunrays boldly pierce the window blinds, creating a different vibe in his room. We talk about something and with every uttered word, our faces draw nearer to each other as if some invisible physical force makes them attract. Our lips find themselves engaged in a gentle, lingering dance. It is awkward but it feels good, a ticklish sensation in our tummies. Having trespassed the boundaries originally set, we feel guilty only for a fraction of a moment. How can we possibly feel culpable when we finally can shower all the piled-up affection in an unrestrained fashion?
My mind is hyper: it needs to cool down. Throwing the sheets, I rush in the bathroom. Shakily my right hand turns on the shower, and I sit on the cold tiles, my hands tiredly entangled around my legs, my chin propped on my knees. I think about our no longer perfect romantic story. With the distance, my love for him has intensified: a couple of times a day I send him long e-mails about anything and everything, every second person I see on the street seems to be him, I try to make the plans for my life according to his plans for his life. He, however, does not seem to reciprocate, which makes me lose hope and motivation with each passing day. His e-mails are rarer and less personal, his phone calls are now limited to “Hi! Could you do me a favor?” No longer does he have 5 minutes a day to spend solely on me. When he contacts me, he talks about his matters and problems, never asking how I feel, how I cope, how my life goes. “I do not have time. Life here is busy.” he explains as succinctly as possible. ‘I know”, I respond, but deep down I am convinced that this cannot be the reason for his coldness that makes my very being ache in agony. He must have found a substitute for me. It is just so blatantly obvious. Lukewarm water trickles down my spine and lulls me to sleep.
Now I have my eyes wide open. Unbiased, I see his faithfulness (or rather lack thereof) to me over the years. I came to the States, true, with different original intentions, but in this new place, I chose to start my life anew. The past is locked in a box hidden in a cupboard back home. I go out, meet friends, have fun, flirt, and seek happiness with other people. Satisfied with my life, I do not need him for me to be happy. The world is just as beautiful without him. 200 miles is too far away. It is not worth it.
On a rainy day, he leaves for this land far away. He disappears in a car and I wave goodbye at it a long time after it gets out of sight. As if planted, I stay there under the rain, but do not feel its revitalizing effect; instead, I feel that I am withering because something vital to my life has just been taken away. Days later I read this book called “Under the Yoke” by Ivan Vazov. In it, Boycho, who is in love with Rada, leaves the town for an indefinitely long period because otherwise he will be killed by the Turkish oppressors. As part of the description of this situation, the author uses a popular Bulgarian proverb according to which “Eyes that do not see each other, forget each other.” “Really?” I exclaim but keep on reading. The characters love each other so deeply that eventually they prove the folk wisdom wrong. Despite all the dangerous situations Boycho has to live through, he never forgets Rada. Similarly, despite her beauty and her admirers, Rada does not forget Boycho. I marvel this pure, real love and I know that mine will also survive the relentless passage of time.
In five minutes’ time, I wake up because of the same trickle that put me to sleep. I remember about this book I read a while back. My love is true but this is not enough to save our relationship. My salty tears mix with the shower drops and I quietly admit to myself: “He has forgotten me.”
I have not forgotten him! Despite everything, I have not. In a few days’ time, I am traveling 200 miles southeast.
Meal Adventures
January 15, 2008Yet another family gathering. Dad gets slightly excited after a couple of glasses of rakia while mom nags that it is high time he switched to Coca Cola. Overall, there is lots of talking and lots of laughing but I do not get much of it. Being just 6, I am relegated under the table gaping at the feet of the grown-ups. I tickle the small ones and press on the big ones; then giggle.
My grandfather decides to give a toast and the moment he gets up, I fix my eyes on his chair. Quickly I take it to a corner of a room and turn it into a hut of a Native American. I nestle under it. At about that time granddad finishes his speech and, oh, no, he has not realized that the chair is no longer there…
He thumps on the floor, and since he likes holding on to the table while sitting, the table and all the food and drinks end on his belly. Commotion! Everyone stares at my hut and specifically at me under it.
On Water
January 14, 2008One of these 5-minute awesome writing exercises we have in class. I should really get around to typing them all up and posting them here, although they all are very humble.
When I was a kid, it took me quite some time to learn to swim. Every other year my parents would bring me to the Black Sea, and then for two weeks have a hard time convincing me to relax on the flat surface. I was too stubborn, too nervous in fact, and I am not sure whether I would have been more successful had I had my beginner lessons even in the saltiest lake in the world – Lake Asal in Djibouti.
One summer though, when we were having our vacation at a place that both had magnificent sandy beaches and breath-taking views of the near-by green mountain, the miracle happened. Confidently, I was paddling with my lifebelt on. What I did not know was that it had no air in it.
Atwater Wall
January 14, 2008Having lost a child in war: A grey, lifeless wall, it brings about nothing but sorrow in me. It is the excellent work of some tombstone carver.
Being in love: The stones fit perfectly into one another, creating a complex yet beautiful mosaic.
Bored: I spent my whole day gaping at the dullness and repetitiveness of the wall blocks in front of me. I could not find a meaning.
Frightened: Big, imposing, seemingly never-ending, the wall is about to collapse on top of me. Or so it feels…
Stranger Studies
January 14, 2008Dressed in an ordinary way – with jeans and a tee, he grabs my attention with his extraordinary facial features, which I quickly identify as a mix of European and Middle Eastern blood. His white skin seems perfect, unblemished but in the duskiness of the room I cannot be sure. He sports a broad smile, showing as many of his shiny, healthy teeth as possible.
He is very fluid on the dance floor, following the rhythm and the beat of the music. However, he is just an okay dancer: despite his skill, he tends to be very repetitive in his movements. For some reason he stays away from female partners, preferring to sway his body in the awkwardly-formed circle of his male friends.
From time to time, he turns towards me and gives me this broad grin. Having in mind that he smiles all the time, I do not feel that he is trying to make an impression on me. He seems very self-confident; I do not like him.
Response to On Two Wheels by Lee Gutkind
January 11, 2008The first thing that strikes me in On Two Wheels is the effective use of language, and I guess it is partly because the choice of the right words in my own pieces is what intimidates me most. Usually finding myself at a loss for active, descriptive words, I would have most probably squeezed a narrative about riding motorcycles in fog and rain in barely a paragraph. Gutkind, however, devotes entire two pages to this simple activity and writes about it in such a perfect and engaging way that I do not realize when I have reached the last sentence.
Although my first association with descriptive language is the profuse almost abusing use of adjectives and adverbs, Gutkind’s short hardly has any. Yet, it tremendously helps the reader to envision the scene. This is so because when building the story, Gutkind relies heavily on conveying the intensity of what is happening through lots of verbs of motion. While Gutkind and his friend progress on their motorbikes, everything around them moves as well: in all sorts of different ways and all sorts of different directions. “Flapped”, “shivered”, “swept”, “spilling” are just a few examples of his playful language, in which “is” or anything else, which evokes images of immobility and dullness, is forbidden.
I find it particularly interesting how certain verbs that are imperative to be in a story like this do not describe only what comes first to mind. The properties of the things and the people in the short are blurred and intermixed. The two friends roll on their motorbikes, but so does the rain down their necks. Fog floats in the air, but so do the friends right through it. Although air leaks only under high pressure (in a liquid state), here it does so under normal conditions too. The rainy, foggy weather is part of Gutkind and his friend, and they are part of it.
It is important to note that Gutkind uses a bunch of comparisons and metaphors at the right places, which are worth a dozen of adjectives. In Gutkind’s shoes, I would have produced a considerable amount of sweat, thinking which words would describe best the sound resulting from the interaction of the plastic and the fierce wind. He solves the problem in an easy yet powerful way: “The rainsuit collar flapped fast in the wind, plastic against plastic, sounding like the propeller of a small airplane.”
On balance, On Two Wheels teaches me that I should not be afraid of the power of language, that I can describe the world around me in almost any imaginable way, as long as I set myself free from my own restrictions. I should not be confined to building images only in the traditional way. I should get a little crazy, experiment, and play around with strong words. Trucks do not just throw mud at Gutkind; they actually punch him with that mud. I should be able to see that when I write my own piece.
