Posted to Stories on the topic of Compulsions on
27 April 2008, with no comments so far.
by Shya—Age 30—New York City
I do this thing my friends call “folding corners.” I didn’t name it. It’s when I take a piece of fabric, usually the edge of a sleeve or that lovely little stitching right where a zipper is sewn on to the coat, or maybe even, OK, I’ll take the tip of the collar if I’m wearing one. So I take it and I gently fold it in half so the fabric has a nice bend, a bend I can feel, something substantial, a crease, a bend, and my fingers begin to itch a little. Then I take the crease, the bend, and I roll it slowly between my fingers, back and forth, rolling, and then fold it the other way and do the same until the whole area feels supple, softer, and then I fold it in half again until I can’t fold it anymore, until the fabric bunches too tight and I let it unravel. I can’t tell you how satisfying this is. The first thing I do when I get a new piece of clothing, sometimes even before I wear it, is find the best corner on it to fold. Some of them are hard to find. Sometimes it takes a while but I find it, I find it, even before I snip off the tag I’ll know the best corner, the crease, and given it a little roll. I have a pair of pants, this one pair of pants, and most of the fabric is too soft already and it doesn’t have many good corners but there’s one, there’s one that’s right exactly in the crotch and I don’t get to fold it much except when I’m sitting on the toilet and then it’s right there and so right as I sit down I’m at it, I’m kneading the stiff seem where the legs come together and rolling it against my thumb and index finger, pinching it gently, and pressing it more firmly, then bending it back. Folding corners. I’ve stopped writing twice to fold the corner of my sleeve; I’m wearing my favorite green shirt; it has so many wonderful corners to fold, it has so many, I’m never going to give this shirt up. Never.
(Repost)
Posted to Stories on the topic of Autobiographies on
12 April 2008, with no comments so far.
From 400 Words, Issue 1
by Andrew – Age 26 – Orlando, FL
This guy, see, or should we say a boy then, was born already distracted. With bright eyes and a quiet mouth, he watched and watched. Leaves made good friends, which unnerved his parents such that they made him do things like play baseball. He was forced to stand in the outfield, which unnerved him such that he couldn’t stop anxiously biting his nails. He looked around at everybody in caps and cleats, clueless to their fascination. His dreams were about how amazing it was to feel the spongy the wood chips underfoot, not about a day at the plate.
Even as a child he never cared for reading about himself very much. Diaries were abandoned and lost; pictures crumpled; and later, e-mails deleted. His biography would be no visual patchwork, but he was labeled “artistic.” Memories were smells and sounds, small triggers. He struggled with remembering as he imagined regular people did, and floundered in school. His talent was a nigh-useless cycle of absorption, imagination, and obsession, tragically detached from his environment. If you gave him a glass of water, he’d have a good idea how to swim in the ocean. He flunked French without an ounce of grace for lack of conjugation.
It was discovered his mother passed down to him a strange empathy fused with perceptive retardation. It lay unrecognized for years—who wants to be sincere when they’re eighteen? But this talent-curse ran so deeply, was so ingrained that he couldn’t pin down the impetus that hurtled him about. He went to the sea, but it wasn’t much like he imagined—too large and cold, frightening, remote. Leaves rotted and were covered by layers of ice and snow in the New England winter.
He became hopelessly confused. Often words were too much, sights too much, and feeling too little. Nothing gelled. Adult work was tolerable only for the newness of each situation, and he was left to wander. He still bit his nails and was scared of “now.” He couldn’t stop his course for the world, until he found somebody to describe him in a single word. She knew how he heard cicadas in winter and the crunch of frost in the summer. The couch smelled musty, and her breath gave dust in the air new motion when she told him, whispering in his ear as a dry snow fell outside. He promptly forgot it and was happy.
Posted to Stories on the topic of Autobiographies on
7 April 2008, with 1 comment so far.
From 400 Words, Issue 1
by Mary—Age 46—Olympia, WA
I was born into a sad person’s middle class white home of angry people and miserable immigrant grandparents who loved me more than my own weird mother did. Always a feminist before I could clearly say the letter ‘f,’ I started seriously writing in second grade when the authorities pronounced me a child genius because I could write a simple poem and draw a perfect Christmas tree.
In the fifth grade I wrote a poem about Halloween so amazing that my mother insisted I didn’t write it, and chastised me for copying someone else’s work. So much for being a child genius. Between eleven and twenty-four I filled 41 notebooks with loopy poetry that today I can proudly say embarrasses even me when I read it. Just what was the point?
I spent the next ten years earning four educational degrees, including one doctorate from Syracuse University. Along the way I became a special education teacher in upstate New York. One year I spent working with K-6 kids in Johnstown, well known for its belching tanneries. That was in 1983-1984. I liked leather, so I thought it would be a fun place to live. It was nearly a Superfund site all by itself! I was lonely, had no friends since all of the other teachers were married, and my face was so stressed with acne that I looked like a pizza. So, I became a Big Sister to a little girl who had just learned that her real father was not her father after all. I also did community theatre in a former take-out fried chicken joint. I cried a lot.
In 1986 I got married to a fairy tale guy in a fairy tale place under fairy tale conditions. Five years later I wore the new label of divorced battered woman. I drew closer to my religion—Christian Science—which was the best thing that has ever happened to me. I gave up meat totally in 1994, my last holdout being twice-cooked pork.
I don’t smoke, drink, use drugs, or engage in self-analysis. I avoid TV, and read and walk every day. I spend my time teaching future teachers how to teach. I also do freelance writing for a neighborhood newspaper, volunteer as a BookPals classroom reader, and hang out with my humongous doggies. I sleep easy, have endless energy, procrastinate occasionally—OK, a lot. Life’s good. And I’m happy.
Posted to Stories on the topic of Autobiographies on
5 April 2008, with no comments so far.
by Annabel—Age 24—Edinburgh, Scotland
Mom was a conceptual artist and Dad a drummer in punk bands. Once he played a gig dressed only in boxers and tinfoil, which fell off as he played. He stopped playing when I was two, and started taking me to social work school with him on the Green Line. Mom stopped doing art before I was born. When I was two she got chronic fatigue syndrome and spent much of the next four years sleeping. Other times she threw coffee cups, forgot me at school in the snow, loved me, painted with me, was scary and unpredictable. We had the same first grade teacher; both of us were her favorites.
Sister born when I was five and a half; Mom’s immune system revived, cured by pregnancy. A symbiotic relationship was formed. On being parted one time, sister said enigmatically of herself/mom, “Bubba doesn’t want Bubba to go!”
Dad and I were allies and best friends. There are no words for it. We moved to a boarding school and lived in an apartment in one of the dorms. Dad worked too much. Mom cut herself with razors and wouldn’t cook for me. One Thanksgiving she left the family because I had worn my new slippers out in the dorm hallway. She came back five hours later and we all went to my dad’s brother’s house for dinner.
Dad’s family were “hard core New Englanders.” The family business is psychiatry; until a hundred years ago it was the Calvinist ministry. Mom’s family were from the South. In 1900 her granddaddy was living off squirrel meat on a farm in South Carolina. That same year Dad’s great-grandmother was giving tea parties for the glitterati in her Boston salon. She would always invite in her brother when he would ride into the Harbor on his yacht, manic, shooting off a pistol; he spent half his life in a hospital and the other half teaching at Harvard. Mom’s granddaddy was illiterate. In 2003 I went to South Carolina and stood on his land and shot his pistol at a log.
When I was 19 I moved to Scotland and studied history at university. My boyfriend is from Mexico City. I’m not sure I ever want to live in the United States again, but maybe I will. I miss my family.
(repost)
