100 words

Squash.  Now that’s a word I’m unfamiliar with.  I have never played squash before, though I have watched tidbits from matches.  It looks like fast fun.  My first time eating squash was at the Ganley’s house.  It was good – sweet and creamy.  I have squashed a lot of bugs in my life, if that counts as knowing squash well.  My favorite bugs to crush were the red crawlers – tiny, circular, an abundance of legs.  I remember letting them crawl on my skin, tickling me, and then smacking five or more with one hand.  I now had an abundance of freckles.

Notes on Braided Essay (stop making sense)

So for my final I tried to rearrange the order of some of the “braids.”  I also edited sections, removed some, added new parts to some.  I tried to develop a main theme for each of the three places I describe.  I didn’t want a strait-forward essay with one interpretation and one conclusion.  I did try to have one thing that is always present: my desire to be with people/my craving for conversation.  I also used prayers (being that the piece is about Sunday) to tie some of the braids together.  At some places they work better than at others.  At first it may seem like my personality and actions are at complete odds with the prayer bits, but later on (and by later on I mean the end) the message of the prayer and I agree – to some extent.  If at any point you are trying to make sense of my piece, go no further – there’s not much of that here.  Anyway, enjoy!  Here’s a version to download for Word (it might be easier/better to read this way)             braided-essay-edit.doc 

Braided Essay – edited

A Day for Prayer

By Dickie Redmond

 

 

 

Your Goodness has brought me safely to the beginning of this day.

 

I wake up to a knock on my door and a loud siren on Oxford Street in London at 10:00am on a Sunday.  The cleaners are here – a young, pretty Portuguese woman who is roughly my age and her mother.  They giggle as I get out of bed, grab my American Psycho, and head to the common room to nap and read on the curvy bright red sofa that sits below a black and white photo of Times Square, New York.  The taxis are the only things in color, reiterating their overbearing presence.  I am about to sit – dizzy, mouth tasting like death, and imprinted with marks from my sheets – when I realize I desperately need to take a piss.  I stand, blood rushes to my head, and I stumble past the kitchen where my 34-year-old roommate, Enrique, stands making breakfast, smoking a cigarette. I walk through the narrow, white hallway to the bathroom where I stand and empty liquid onto and into the toilet.  My feet are cold so I don’t wash my hands.  I head back to the couch and pick up my book. 

 

–

 

Waking up in Essex Fells, NJ is pleasant, especially on Sunday.  My sheets are kicked onto my blue and yellow-carpeted floor, and I can smell bacon and either chocolate chip or Swedish pancakes.  I slowly pull off my thick blue comforter that is soft on the inside and textured with cookie-cutter squares on the outside and step onto my thin but cushioned carpet.  I go into the bathroom to prepare for a relaxing Sunday.  I turn on the shower, grab my toothbrush that is conveniently placed in a cup sitting on a glass shelf above my sink, and turn on the faucet to begin my morning routine.  Structure.  Steam starts to fill the room, the smell of breakfast now thick.  

 

–

 

In your mercy, you gave us rest through night-long sleep, and raised us up to glorify your goodness and to offer our supplication to You.

 

–

 

I am sweating when I wake up in my room at Middlebury College on Sunday.  I can smell myself well.  I am nervous – tense – and I have been thinking about work in my sleep.  The past two hours of semi-sleep have been restless: I want to nap out of physical exhaustion, but I want to be awake so I can plan my day, so I can study for the midterms in the coming week.  Work. 

 

Some beer cans are still hanging out on my desk, and clothes – plaid button downs, an assortment of corduroys, boxers, and rogue socks – swallow my bright blue bowl chair.  I don’t like the mess.  I look outside at the mountains, and lift two brass handles to open the window.  Cobwebs occupy the space between the screen and the panes, and it smells like Vermont.  Burning fires smell like Vermont.  My body is instantly cooled.  I grab my towel and slip on my sandals.  They are wet, and my feet are now slimy with soap and water.  I go down the hallway to the bathroom where a sign reads: “Please stop pissing on the floor.”  

 

–

 

That what we hear or learn we may apply to Thy honor and the eternal salvation of our own souls.

 

–

 

Some page, probably in the 200’s: Patrick Bateman has just nailed a blonde prostitute to a large wooden board that is now camouflaged red and beige.  He has drugged her to a point where there are no definite points.  He has tubing and a rat.  Enrique sings a Spanish song, and repeats “Vick’s Vapor Rub,” but it comes out “Bicks Bauper Rub.”  His pronunciation is rhythmic – each word is a perfectly separated beat.  I can smell the cigarette smoke mixed with the eggs and peppers, delicious.  Bateman forces the tubing sprinkled with cheese into the girl, and lets the rat free.  It squirms and hungrily bites inside her.  Now she is sober. 

 

The bright red couch looks comfortable, but only looks.  It does not feel comfortable because it is cheap, and cheap couches are almost never comfortable.  Its cushions look thick but barely sink when you lay down.  Bateman leaves the empty apartment and goes to work.  I go back to my room after the cleaners have finished. 

 

–

 

I walk down the green spiral staircase surrounded by light yellow to the kitchen and open the door.  I knew it was Swedish pancakes and bacon.  There are hash browns too; I guess they don’t smell.  My Mom says “good morning,” and Dad says in a casual, hip voice, “hey dude” when I sit down in my chair at the kitchen table.  It is a big dark brown table that can sit eight, but sits five.  My Dad asks what I did last night and I tell him that I went to the movies with the guys, and he asks with who, and I say Mike, Matty, Kev, Sherman, Derek, Scott, and Dani, and he says what about Durgin, and I say he had to drive his Dad to the airport, and he says what about Moose, and I say we don’t really hang out with him anymore, and he asks what the workload is like for the day, and I say manageable.  He starts reading the New York Times again.  My Mom brings over some OJ and I thank her.  She asks me what I want for breakfast, and I say everything.  She scoops freshly made pancakes sitting next to the stove onto one plate, and brings them over with a folded white napkin and the proper utensils.  I thank her again and start eating.  I love pancakes. 

 

Conversation starts again.  

 

–

 

Dear God, give me courage,

for perhaps I lack it more than anything else.

 

–

 

I step outside – Oxford Street.  It’s packed.  It’s always packed, but in London everyone seems to do all of their shopping on Sundays, so Oxford Street – shopping central – becomes more packed than usual.  The crowds are annoying due to my hangover and a sleeping daze that has left me more passive than usual.  I stumble around, easily tossed by aggression.  

 

I step into a Nero’s Café, order a coffee, and get my card stamped – one away from a free treat.  I cross the street and head over to the bookstore.  Patrick Bateman inspires me.  I buy Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson and a book entitled: “Wall Street Basics” by Some Guy.  I like Batman’s style – he’s smooth and an asshole; he makes people look stupid, and even others make him look stupid.  I step back outside.  Thousands of people surround me.  I am alone and maybe even lonely, and no one speaks to me.  I need to waste some time so I cross the street yet again to go to the Virgin Megastore.  A man brushes past me and at least he speaks: “Why do you have to be so stuck up.”  I think back at him: “Fuck you.”

 

–

 

Behold, O Lord, I offer You my whole being and in particular all my thoughts, words and actions, together with such crosses and contradictions as I may meet with in the course of this day.

 

–

 

Will gets in my silver Toyota 4Runner and we start driving around.  It’s great to drive just to drive.  You forget about the other things that matter. It’s relaxing.  The environment doesn’t really like me now, but we’ll be friends again.  The day is nice and the tunes are even better thanks to 106.7, The Wizard. 

 

We head south down 7 and take a left onto a road that goes through the mountains.  He rolls down the window and smokes a rolled Bali Shag cigarette.  Its smell is stronger and more aromatic than a normal chemically laced cigarette.  The car is steamy despite it being freezing outside – the smoke, the ski equipment.  My car is a mess: Two beer bottles sit on the floor, MacDonald’s bags stink the car further, napkins are torn and dirty, the windshield is covered in filthy fingerprint art.  We talk about school, about the weekend, about what work needs to be done, about our plans for the coming week.  We are overly critical of almost everything and everyone.  We share laughs and enjoy some company before the work comes.  The car drives up and the window becomes a canvas.  Pictured: a stream on the left divided by fluffy whiteness and trees alive with dangling ice.  The piece is entitled “Winter Welcomes You.”

 

–

 

 

The Giants.  I sit on my couch and watch them play every Sunday.  Eli throws an interception most games, a result of the excessive pressure he is under in New York.  The hate directed towards Eli Manning is a result of clashing personalities: New York and New Jersey are aggressive while Eli is passive.  Since most people find it hard to accept his field presence and his overtly docile style, the sports editors don’t like him.  There are lots of things wrong with the Giants, though, mainly their secondary.  I think that it’s hard to criticize the team given that they have been to the playoffs three consecutive years, and are now heading to the Super Bowl.  I think Eli will find confidence; however, when I talk to most people they say we just need a new quarterback. 

 

–

 

Jesus, You invited me to follow You,

To sell my goods, to give to the poor,

And to completely submit Myself to You.

 

–

 

I feel like I am in a different place despite being minutes from campus.  This is the Vermont I knew when I was younger – snow coated pine trees, frozen streams, comfortable red cottages that puff smoke.  I feel comforted by memories, by familiarity, by conversation.  Someone else needs to let Me know that my behavior last night was normal.  Someone else needs to not work so that I am no longer stressed out.  Someone else needs to be like Me.

 

 

–

 

My speakers are white and have a silver volume control that is also used to turn them on.  The top of the table is white and there are no drawers to put stuff in.  My bed is to my left and my TV behind me.  The room is white – no posters, no drawings.  The carpet is beige.  The room is light.  My roommate’s white bed and windows are to the right – Oxford Street.  The air is crispy thin and smells of disinfectant.  Sterility. 

 

–

 

Visit, we beseech Thee, O Lord, this dwelling, and drive far from it all snares of the enemy

–

 

The NFL makes Sunday what it is.  It’s relaxing.  It’s TV time.  I like the atmosphere – the pre-game shows, the sandwich shop my family goes to every Sunday where we see familiar faces, the occasional tailgate, the family scattered around the house but mainly watching, my comfortable blue couch, the dogs, exercise between games, my crack in the couch, the dog hair, the sun shining through the three big windows on the right wall, the leaves falling, birds watching, sometimes soup, late lunch, small lunch, clouds and sometimes rain, the smell of a fire late in the season, the Giants win, always people to talk to…attention.

 

–

 

Sunday is a time for music.  I am alone most Sundays in London, and it is time to listen to new stuff, to stray away from my musical comfort zone.  I grew up on the Grateful Dead and other folk, bluegrass, and jam bands; I was a product of my Dad’s taste.  The music was smooth, relaxed and effervescent.  In London I found new stuff.  What is popular: The Kooks, Peter Bjorn and John, Arctic Monkeys, Oasis (still), TV on the Radio, Babyshambles, The Libertines, The Klaxons, Kasabian, Hot Chip…  I sit at my computer listening to music coming from a garage in a black swirly chair. In London the music is raw, it is stripped of any optimism – a fault to some, but real life to others.  I like listening to something different, though I find artists being excessively cynical for no reason.  I like that cynicism on these Sundays when no one else is around. 

 

–

 

I do work in my single.  I try to watch what TV I can, but Sunday is a day for work here, for making up what was not done on the other days.  It’s a time for learning – quiet. 

 

Maybe I can watch a movie.

 

I sit alone with my books and sometimes music.  I can call people to see what they are doing but I don’t – almost everyone is working.  It is dark outside.  Quiet.  I do work alone.  I want to tell people how much I have just done.

 

–

 

Blessed are You for giving us family and friends

To be with us in times of joy and sorrow,

To help us in days of need,

And to rejoice with us in moments of celebration..

 

–

 

All of my flat mates are tired – Lindsay, Sarah, Enrique, Alberto, and that Russian girl.  Most people are in the kitchen, smoking cigarettes, talking about their jobs, about their real lives back home.  I am by far the youngest at 18, and I don’t have a real life back home – I’m still in fantasyland.  I don’t like talking to most of my flat mates: Their English is still developing, making conversation more difficult, and the age gap makes it hard to discuss topics that are relevant to both parties.  They are also strangely obsessed with sex, which is apparent after knowing them for a short time.  I find it weird and juvenile that they often stumble upon this topic given their age.

 

 

I talk to them anyway.  

 

–

 

Bless us, O Lord, and these your gifts, which we are about to receive from your bounty.

 

–

 

I sit at the dinner table.  Scott, T.J., Mom, and Dad are here.  Sunday means 60 Minutes is on for dinner.  We listen to the interviews and listen to Andy Rooney: “Why do we have all these pills?”  I don’t know.  Every other night is Jeopardy and Seinfeld.  Lester and Lucy beg for food.  Now Lucy is old and Lester is dead.  We eat early on Sundays, 6:30.  Everyone is calm and relaxed.  We all have company – people to talk to.  My Dad asks questions, driving conversation: Are college applications done?  What did you get on your spelling test?  When is Ryan’s birthday party?  How was the lacrosse game?  Have you finished your resume yet? When’s the next Sweet 16? How was Eagan Field?  All of us get his attention. After dinner we are all around the kitchen and den. 

 

We do what work needs to be done,

All happily dumb on Sunday,

Talking when we need to,

Here.

 

–

 

Father,

We praise You for Your Son Jesus,

Who knew the happiness of family and friends,

And in the love of Your Holy Spirit.

Blessed are you for ever and ever.

 

Amen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All prayers are taken from Catholic Online, www.catholic.org

100 words

There’s a lighthouse at the end of Baxter Road.  It’s tall – red and white striped – and sits on a piece of earth that is ready to fall.  The ocean is too close – red with tide, its waves big but only crashing on the shore, and dangerous.  Dad told us not to go in unless he is there because of the undertow.  The seaweed is all over the place and gross – red.  It is flimsy and rubbery, spiked in areas – acting like a shark or a scary fish.  We ride our bikes to the end of the road – looking up, forgetting the ocean.

100 words

The clock sits, ticking loudly, letting everyone know that time is passing by.  I look at the mini home – a small wooden box, dark brown – and wait for the bird to come out, to let us know that the hour has passed.  A pendulum swings below.  A skinny arm holds the large circular time keeper that sits below the tiny doors where the bird lives.  I see the small clock-face approaching the hour, and I observe the elegantly inscribed designs – curvy, wavy, wing-like.  I wait, become impatient, so I go downstairs and listen to the still mysterious bird making its time call.

POed

Today I locked my door for the first time at Middlebury College.  Here’s why: I’ve had two items stolen in the past week – a new 80GB iPod and an expensive watch I saved up for over this past summer.  Today I noticed my watch was missing.  I had a dream that I was wearing my watch and sleeping last night, so when I woke up, I checked to see where it was.  I guess that says something about our subconscious… After looking for a while (about 2 hours), I concluded it was stolen.  I got pissed.  I ripped my absentee ballot, the editing exercise we did in class with the big sheet of paper (something I probably could have used today), I played loud music, I yelled Fuck about 30 times, and slammed drawers and shoes as hard as I could.  When pissed off, the worst thing you can do is get in a car.  So I got in my car, played music that hopefully would ease my mood, and sped fast and slowed down depending on the thoughts I was having.  Now, in the final stages of being angry, I am completely calm, but still shaking. 

Something wierd

I don’t like writing first sentences.  First sentences constrain me for some reason.  They make my writing go in one direction – the direction of the sentence, they don’t allow me to write about everything that there is.  I like to imagine writing a piece in many ways, with more than one first sentence.  

100 words

Streeeetch.  My moms voice is familiar, telling me to start a new day.  I get up, hold my arms close to my body, and then point them in different directions – eventually ending above my head.  I stand on my toes.  I crack every bone in my body.  I make them loose.  My ears crack, wind comes in and out, the sound in and out.  It is hollow, loud.  I yawn.  I make my last lazy sound – time for real noise.  My muscles are tense then relaxed.  It’s time for them to move.  I shake and make the ground exist.  

100 words

I’ve never eaten a cranberry.  Does it taste like the juice?  I have always been a picky eater, just now am I becoming adventurous in the most simple way.  The juice has a very strong flavor – staining, permanent – a reason why I didn’t like it when I was younger.  I always thought that meal food was bad.  It wasn’t meant to taste good.  Desert was good.  I liked chocolate.  I liked gummys.  No healthy food.  No lettuce.  No fruit.  No vegies.  I assumed things were bad. Now I have the reward of tasting things for the first time.    

100 words

I remember fairs at my elementary school.  They took place on our field, a depressed piece of earth surrounded by steep, grassy hills.  Two baseball diamonds sat in opposition to each other, the closer one better.  I remember the tall velcro wall, the dip your friend in water by throwing a ball at a circular lever game, the cotton candy – blue, red, pink, and I remember the human gyroscope.  I remember being younger.  I remember wanting to be older so I could go in the gyroscope, spinning people fast in every direction.  I wanted to be older, to be cool.