Carnival colored lights rotate like a dradle. A wire bridge is illuminated with shards of glassand connects a communist-like window. It's rulered blinds run from California to New York. There is life in the room, but one element within the life that is dead- a plant with bottom-of-the-oven leaves. It suffers in silence next to the hypocrite of a tissue box; bright yellow in color, like an overenthusiastic cheerleader. The gray boarder at the bottom of the tissue box reveals it's truth. The blanket is a river, cascading down the bed as a laptop white water rafts downstream. A crop circle pillow is protected by the river, but isn't safe from it's rapids.
The walls are anything but bear, one side covered with Disney posters and organized home photos while the other is wallpapered with band names ripped out of a magazine and a chaotic collage of faces. Once one looks below the fire line, there is no clear distinction of where the middle of the room lies. Two grey boots, one black shoe, three different socks all scattered in the middle. A tan-grey rug fails in its attempt to keep everything contained. Posters of half-naked men outline the door directly adjacent to the windows covered with lavender curtains, half falling down. The lights point in all directions, like an octopus that isn’t sure where he’s going. The room is light, colorful, and the punk rock music is filling the air trying to support the posters on the wall.
An easy walk to the drugstore turned into a shoving frenzy between myself and the furious wind. What I thought was going to be a quiet stroll made it seem as if my task was urgent. At the same time multi-colored leaves one by one are zooming by my face smacking me in the process. For the most part I was alone one the street except for the last minute shoppers trying to gather last minute items before the storm. University Police Department drive by going about it's business, maybe coming from it a routine patrol of the town or stocking up items that they also need as well. As I pass the school nothing is in sight, the swings are stiff as a deer when caught in the headlights.
The sound of an overworked fan can be heard 24/7 underneath my roommates bed. The fan is in direct conflict with a heating system that is barely working, result a room temperature that is neither too hot or too cold. A lamp stand that looks like it was manufactured on Mars, also grabs the attention. The bulbs are supported by "branches" that look like a tree that has lost its leaves. The window blinds are open revealing the storm outside. The white walls are littered with little inconsistencies such as chips and tape prints. And the flicking green light of the wifi device over my bed occasionally catches the attention.
Dorm: Even with the windows shut, the wind manages to roar into the room like a starving, angry lion. The white Christmas lights flicker on and off, predicting the dark night ahead. Pillows and blankets call out my name, waiting to be curled up with. Vanilla and Crisp Apple candles are lit and the room is transformed into a cozy bakery. Best friends cuddle up together, sipping the fizz from newly cracked beer cans, hoping not to make a drunken mess. Silly giggles and hazy laughter fills the room.
The calm before the storm has fulfilled its expectations. Hurricane Sandy is making her appearance in New Paltz. Rain spatters against the windows each time a gust of wind blows like the very first use of a high pressure Super Soaker. The wind causes the shorter trees bundled with thick greens to bend backwards, almost a miracle they do not snap in half. The grey, discomforting clouds travel so quickly they look like a video clip in fast forward. The whirls of wind sound as a warning of what destruction is to come, creating an unwelcoming atmosphere outside despite the brave – or mindless – pedestrians disregarding the storm. The foliage is torn off the tallest trees and thrown into the streets, traveling out of site in the blink of an eye.
As I sit on a piece of drift wood I hear the crashing of the waves, the echo is infinite as if in a cave. This scene cannot be captured, if it were set on a canvas it would feel nostalgic, alike my grandmother’s senior prom in Wichita, Kansas. The sound prevails to repeat as the waves retreat, each time swallowing a piece of earth; the constant ripples, encompassed in a lake of monstrous girth.
There is one spot I always go to when told to observe and describe a place; this is becaue every time I go I find someting different. I'm sitting on a bench in the grassy field that makes up the quad on campus. The grass is sticking up in unnatural clumps from being trampled by short-cutting students on their way to class day after day. The smell of rain is in the air and the wind is whspering in strangely different patterns as Hurricaine Sandy rolls in. A memo-board sprouts out of the ground to my right decorated with layers of bright flyers like the litted streets of a heavily-trodden city street. The bench I am sitting on, rather than grass, is sourounded by beaten earth that has melted into mud in the recent band of rains. The wrapper of a cough-drop floats in a small circle probably from the miniature whirlpool I created when my rainboots splashed their way to the bench.
Perched upon a comforting warn, burgundy cushion, my head swivels in each direction as a new body comes into focus. The commotion is at every angle with constant clicking and tapping of keys as figures around me work to finish assignments. The florescent lighting beams down on my scalp like the sun on an August beach day as I stare across the room into the all-consuming bay window. It displays the mountain line's fog receding from the wake of Hurricane Sandy, and in its midst a lonely flittering leaf catches my attention as my gaze shifts to the ink-stained carpet and numerous pairs of feet tapping and fidgeting. The small movements never seem to end as an occasional cough breaks the silence like gonging clock bell rings at 7 AM, terminating the morning tranquility. Shelves jammed with books and magazines outline the remainder of the rooms leaving a sense of coziness and familiarity.
What is behind that door? The door is the entrance to the amusement. Next to the door are two long, dark brown curtains that conceal the inside of a fashionable closet with the latest trends. The walls are white, thin, and the shape of a square. Tiny wholes in the walls from thumb tacks and nails. The shuttered windows are as big as the wall and in a perfectly shaped square with straight blinds. This room is so bright, yet so dark. The curtains are white and bring light into the room, but by night the only light you can see is the silhouette shine of the moon. A bed as big as king size in the middle of the room, perfectly intended for a queen to fit. The tiled white floor has scratches that tell a story from a mysterious past. The lamp is about 4 feet from the floor up with a tiny switcher that switches the lights from on to off.
The aroma of hazelnut starts to fill my nose as I lay and wait for my coffee to brew. The machine begins to rumble as if it were about to combust, but I know this means its almost ready. As soon as I start to sip my scalding hot drink I hear my friends approaching our room, their laughter spilling through the walls. This suite is shared by 8 different girls, which by the disastrous condition of the space, cannot be disguised. Belongings are strewn across every inch of the common room, and each individual room overflows with different decorations that perfectly depict each one of our personalities.
The wind stirs and folds itself around me. I'm only buttressed by the wall behind me. Looking up, the only thing darker than the canopy above me is the cloudy sky beyond it, as rain drains down what few leaves remain. The air is heavy with petrichor: the sweet smell of the gods after a rain shower. Wheatgrass bursting from the base of the stone mason wall rubs against my exposed back, causing me to pull my hoodie down further. Rising from half-lotus, I fight the wind strengthened by the altitude. Looking out over the wall, Poughkeepsie comes full into view. The lights dotting the top cables of the Mid-Hudson bridge race back and forth, leading your eyes down Route 44/55. Areas of darkness dot the landscape, as the shore rises dangerously close to the riverside attractions. Sliding down the path, blanketed by leaves, I pull the hood up and brace for all nature has in store.
Muddy shoes,empty water bottles, and note books lie disheveled across a dirty, coffee stained purple rug. Ugly blue furniture is placed in a haphazard circle where friends sit, laughing and typing away on laptops,the frantic clicking of the keys filling the confined space along with murmurs of conversation. A lavender air freshener fills the common room with a calming homey aroma masking the scent of dirty laundry and overflowing trash cans. The windows are closed to keep out the sharp November draft, filling the space with muggy air made heavy from our combined breaths and the stress of the next days assignments.
Dorm: Constantly, the commotion of construction vehicles outside can be heard through the half open windows. These windows allow an abundance of light into the room, making the existence of the alien-like lamp hidden in the corner unneeded during the daytime. As I sit here, the contrast between the two sides of the room is glaring, refusing to be ignored. One side neat and orderly, with every piece of clothing folded and arranged or stored in drawers or closets. The other a haphazard mess, with drawers half open, piles of clothes on an unmade bed, and a desk that seems to contain more than it ever was designed to.
There‘s a thought. Suddenly my insides fast forward. The temperature rises in my head. My hands are cold. My mouth is dry. I should get up and get a drink, but I've done that far too many times already. I could be outside. It’s beautiful outside. I could have been outside for three hours now instead of sitting in here not getting anything done, beating around the bush. What the hell is wrong with me? On the walk here I saw the fall sun. He seemed so distant as he stared at the mountains. They felt his warmth on their backs as they looked in the other direction. They knew he was watching. They have the allure of conceit and the sun struggles to get over them every day. He always stares, such an awkward sun. It was 4pm on a Tuesday in November. The air around my face and hands was cold and stingy. Bright rays of sun and brisk cold air roused my senses enough that I noticed the faint aroma of burning apple wood. These smoke particles I thought must have traveled from a wood stove in a cabin less than a mile away in an apple orchard perfectly placed in the picturesque pastoral valley between the high hills and mountain cliffs this area has to offer. I love the smell and breathing in cooled my throat and lungs. I slipped air in and out of the inflated balloon in my chest. These were therapeutic breathes like inhaling and exhaling cigarette smoke. I don’t smoke cigarettes but my friend had told me this was the reason she puts up with the possibility of lung cancer. “Well, I guess it’s more of a way for me to relax, kind of therapeutic you know? Like Tai Chi.” Every conversation, every meal, every physical encounter with my friend has a cigarette inevitably attached. It's like a love triangle involving me or some dude, her, and Nicotine. As I sit here surrounded by old books on old shelf’s my mind wanders and drifts as if all the words and stories inside the pages and volumes had spilled out flooding the library floors and making it a restless sea of ideas, wonders, worries, and excitement. I hope I learn to navigate these restless waters. I'm becoming more familiar with the stars I see at night.
A dorm room:
ReplyDeleteCarnival colored lights rotate like a dradle. A wire bridge is illuminated with shards of glassand connects a communist-like window. It's rulered blinds run from California to New York. There is life in the room, but one element within the life that is dead- a plant with bottom-of-the-oven leaves. It suffers in silence next to the hypocrite of a tissue box; bright yellow in color, like an overenthusiastic cheerleader. The gray boarder at the bottom of the tissue box reveals it's truth. The blanket is a river, cascading down the bed as a laptop white water rafts downstream. A crop circle pillow is protected by the river, but isn't safe from it's rapids.
beautiful, katherine.
ReplyDeleteThe walls are anything but bear, one side covered with Disney posters and organized home photos while the other is wallpapered with band names ripped out of a magazine and a chaotic collage of faces. Once one looks below the fire line, there is no clear distinction of where the middle of the room lies. Two grey boots, one black shoe, three different socks all scattered in the middle. A tan-grey rug fails in its attempt to keep everything contained. Posters of half-naked men outline the door directly adjacent to the windows covered with lavender curtains, half falling down. The lights point in all directions, like an octopus that isn’t sure where he’s going. The room is light, colorful, and the punk rock music is filling the air trying to support the posters on the wall.
ReplyDeleteThe lights point in all directions, like an octopus that isn’t sure where he’s going--That is fabulous writing, alyssa.
ReplyDeleteAn easy walk to the drugstore turned into a shoving frenzy between myself and the furious wind. What I thought was going to be a quiet stroll made it seem as if my task was urgent. At the same time multi-colored leaves one by one are zooming by my face smacking me in the process. For the most part I was alone one the street except for the last minute shoppers trying to gather last minute items before the storm. University Police Department drive by going about it's business, maybe coming from it a routine patrol of the town or stocking up items that they also need as well. As I pass the school nothing is in sight, the swings are stiff as a deer when caught in the headlights.
ReplyDeleteMy room:
ReplyDeleteThe sound of an overworked fan can be heard 24/7 underneath my roommates bed. The fan is in direct conflict with a heating system that is barely working, result a room temperature that is neither too hot or too cold. A lamp stand that looks like it was manufactured on Mars, also grabs the attention. The bulbs are supported by "branches" that look like a tree that has lost its leaves. The window blinds are open revealing the storm outside. The white walls are littered with little inconsistencies such as chips and tape prints. And the flicking green light of the wifi device over my bed occasionally catches the attention.
Dorm:
ReplyDeleteEven with the windows shut, the wind manages to roar into the room like a starving, angry lion. The white Christmas lights flicker on and off, predicting the dark night ahead. Pillows and blankets call out my name, waiting to be curled up with. Vanilla and Crisp Apple candles are lit and the room is transformed into a cozy bakery. Best friends cuddle up together, sipping the fizz from newly cracked beer cans, hoping not to make a drunken mess. Silly giggles and hazy laughter fills the room.
From My Window
ReplyDeleteThe calm before the storm has fulfilled its expectations. Hurricane Sandy is making her appearance in New Paltz. Rain spatters against the windows each time a gust of wind blows like the very first use of a high pressure Super Soaker. The wind causes the shorter trees bundled with thick greens to bend backwards, almost a miracle they do not snap in half. The grey, discomforting clouds travel so quickly they look like a video clip in fast forward. The whirls of wind sound as a warning of what destruction is to come, creating an unwelcoming atmosphere outside despite the brave – or mindless – pedestrians disregarding the storm. The foliage is torn off the tallest trees and thrown into the streets, traveling out of site in the blink of an eye.
As I sit on a piece of drift wood I hear the crashing of the waves, the echo is infinite as if in a cave. This scene cannot be captured, if it were set on a canvas it would feel nostalgic, alike my grandmother’s senior prom in Wichita, Kansas. The sound prevails to repeat as the waves retreat, each time swallowing a piece of earth; the constant ripples, encompassed in a lake of monstrous girth.
ReplyDeleteThere is one spot I always go to when told to observe and describe a place; this is becaue every time I go I find someting different. I'm sitting on a bench in the grassy field that makes up the quad on campus. The grass is sticking up in unnatural clumps from being trampled by short-cutting students on their way to class day after day. The smell of rain is in the air and the wind is whspering in strangely different patterns as Hurricaine Sandy rolls in. A memo-board sprouts out of the ground to my right decorated with layers of bright flyers like the litted streets of a heavily-trodden city street. The bench I am sitting on, rather than grass, is sourounded by beaten earth that has melted into mud in the recent band of rains. The wrapper of a cough-drop floats in a small circle probably from the miniature whirlpool I created when my rainboots splashed their way to the bench.
ReplyDeletePerched upon a comforting warn, burgundy cushion, my head swivels in each direction as a new body comes into focus. The commotion is at every angle with constant clicking and tapping of keys as figures around me work to finish assignments. The florescent lighting beams down on my scalp like the sun on an August beach day as I stare across the room into the all-consuming bay window. It displays the mountain line's fog receding from the wake of Hurricane Sandy, and in its midst a lonely flittering leaf catches my attention as my gaze shifts to the ink-stained carpet and numerous pairs of feet tapping and fidgeting. The small movements never seem to end as an occasional cough breaks the silence like gonging clock bell rings at 7 AM, terminating the morning tranquility. Shelves jammed with books and magazines outline the remainder of the rooms leaving a sense of coziness and familiarity.
ReplyDeleteWhat is behind that door? The door is the entrance to the amusement. Next to the door are two long, dark brown curtains that conceal the inside of a fashionable closet with the latest trends. The walls are white, thin, and the shape of a square. Tiny wholes in the walls from thumb tacks and nails. The shuttered windows are as big as the wall and in a perfectly shaped square with straight blinds. This room is so bright, yet so dark. The curtains are white and bring light into the room, but by night the only light you can see is the silhouette shine of the moon. A bed as big as king size in the middle of the room, perfectly intended for a queen to fit. The tiled white floor has scratches that tell a story from a mysterious past. The lamp is about 4 feet from the floor up with a tiny switcher that switches the lights from on to off.
ReplyDeleteThe aroma of hazelnut starts to fill my nose as I lay and wait for my coffee to brew. The machine begins to rumble as if it were about to combust, but I know this means its almost ready. As soon as I start to sip my scalding hot drink I hear my friends approaching our room, their laughter spilling through the walls. This suite is shared by 8 different girls, which by the disastrous condition of the space, cannot be disguised. Belongings are strewn across every inch of the common room, and each individual room overflows with different decorations that perfectly depict each one of our personalities.
ReplyDeleteThe wind stirs and folds itself around me. I'm only buttressed by the wall behind me. Looking up, the only thing darker than the canopy above me is the cloudy sky beyond it, as rain drains down what few leaves remain. The air is heavy with petrichor: the sweet smell of the gods after a rain shower. Wheatgrass bursting from the base of the stone mason wall rubs against my exposed back, causing me to pull my hoodie down further. Rising from half-lotus, I fight the wind strengthened by the altitude. Looking out over the wall, Poughkeepsie comes full into view. The lights dotting the top cables of the Mid-Hudson bridge race back and forth, leading your eyes down Route 44/55. Areas of darkness dot the landscape, as the shore rises dangerously close to the riverside attractions. Sliding down the path, blanketed by leaves, I pull the hood up and brace for all nature has in store.
ReplyDeleteMuddy shoes,empty water bottles, and note books lie disheveled across a dirty, coffee stained purple rug. Ugly blue furniture is placed in a haphazard circle where friends sit, laughing and typing away on laptops,the frantic clicking of the keys filling the confined space along with murmurs of conversation. A lavender air freshener fills the common room with a calming homey aroma masking the scent of dirty laundry and overflowing trash cans. The windows are closed to keep out the sharp November draft, filling the space with muggy air made heavy from our combined breaths and the stress of the next days assignments.
ReplyDeleteDorm:
ReplyDeleteConstantly, the commotion of construction vehicles outside can be heard through the half open windows. These windows allow an abundance of light into the room, making the existence of the alien-like lamp hidden in the corner unneeded during the daytime. As I sit here, the contrast between the two sides of the room is glaring, refusing to be ignored. One side neat and orderly, with every piece of clothing folded and arranged or stored in drawers or closets. The other a haphazard mess, with drawers half open, piles of clothes on an unmade bed, and a desk that seems to contain more than it ever was designed to.
There‘s a thought. Suddenly my insides fast forward. The temperature rises in my head. My hands are cold. My mouth is dry. I should get up and get a drink, but I've done that far too many times already. I could be outside. It’s beautiful outside. I could have been outside for three hours now instead of sitting in here not getting anything done, beating around the bush. What the hell is wrong with me? On the walk here I saw the fall sun. He seemed so distant as he stared at the mountains. They felt his warmth on their backs as they looked in the other direction. They knew he was watching. They have the allure of conceit and the sun struggles to get over them every day. He always stares, such an awkward sun. It was 4pm on a Tuesday in November. The air around my face and hands was cold and stingy. Bright rays of sun and brisk cold air roused my senses enough that I noticed the faint aroma of burning apple wood. These smoke particles I thought must have traveled from a wood stove in a cabin less than a mile away in an apple orchard perfectly placed in the picturesque pastoral valley between the high hills and mountain cliffs this area has to offer. I love the smell and breathing in cooled my throat and lungs. I slipped air in and out of the inflated balloon in my chest. These were therapeutic breathes like inhaling and exhaling cigarette smoke. I don’t smoke cigarettes but my friend had told me this was the reason she puts up with the possibility of lung cancer. “Well, I guess it’s more of a way for me to relax, kind of therapeutic you know? Like Tai Chi.” Every conversation, every meal, every physical encounter with my friend has a cigarette inevitably attached. It's like a love triangle involving me or some dude, her, and Nicotine. As I sit here surrounded by old books on old shelf’s my mind wanders and drifts as if all the words and stories inside the pages and volumes had spilled out flooding the library floors and making it a restless sea of ideas, wonders, worries, and excitement. I hope I learn to navigate these restless waters. I'm becoming more familiar with the stars I see at night.
ReplyDelete