The Strange Case of Self Competition

Most days I am Jekyll, sweet of character and kind to all,
But there is a Hyde waging war inside,
An inner temper and fight that seethes within,
like itchy lava pushing at the pores of my skin.
A restlessness that won't right until I fight,
But Jekyll shrinks to hurt a living soul,
So Hyde wages self-war in forms of self control,
Because the lava inside cools when sweat chills my brow,

Pound the lava through shoes on a street,
Dribble the lava into a ball on a court,
Ink the lava onto a page with a pen,
Grind the lava through pedals on a bike,
Punch the lava through mitts on a bag,
Slice the lava through laps in the water,
Sing the lava through keys on a piano,

Until Hyde slumbers inside his cooled skin,
And Jekyll comes to smile at everyone again,

Why am I the Lucky One?

(I made the mistake of going to bed whining about things that in perspective were really dumb and trivial. And this was my dream.)

Why am I the Lucky One?

I dreamed I walked a road with another girl. She wore black. I wore green.

We talked and laughed until our road forked.

I got into my car and drove 12 hours to college,

She was shoved into a train and driven 96 hours to a camp,

I fumed and fussed at bad drivers and broken traffic lights,

She was licking her cracked lips and holding a broken arm, 

I told my Dad I was too tired to stay up and tell him about my trip,

She was told she would never see her Dad again.

I awoke the next morning to grumpily snooze a loud alarm,

She was woken by a rifle shot and an angry curse,

I opened my cupboard and couldn’t decide between cereals,

She was marched down a line to get a boiled turnip,

I worried about an unwritten essay and 70 pages of reading,

She was given a shovel to dig graves,

I complained about my boss and a few extra hours to work,  

She was afraid to slow down or her boss would shoot her brother,

At the day’s end,

I went home, wondering if my roommate's boyfriend would be over again,

She was marched to her bed, wondering if her roommate was alive,

I wondered why the radio station wouldn’t play anything good,

She was wishing she could hear music again,
I worry about impressing my date this weekend,
She was wishing the boy she liked were alive, 

I wished I weren’t out of eggs to make what I wanted,

She was handed one choice of old bread,

I forced my tired eyes to go read scriptures with a full light,

She was straining in the dark to read the one page of print she owned,

I went to bed with a roommate to wish good dreams,

She was holding a child coughing blood and praying he wouldn’t wake,

The next morning,

I put on my warm coat and grumbled about slogging in snow to school,

She was clutching at her thin shirt and watched her breath freeze,

I felt beaten by my professors’ criticism,

She was beaten to blood by her guards,

I closed my eyes and wished I weren’t at school,

She closed her eyes and wished she were in heaven.

I got into my shower and felt warm water, 

She was put into a shower and felt warm gas.

I left my shower.

She was carried from hers.

Two girls, one in black, one in green.
Both born with hopes and dreams.  
Both born under stars, hers a yellow pinned to her chest, mine on a flag, 

I am not any better than her - why am I the lucky one? 

The Potato Peeler

(Angela, this is for you. Some day I might finish it, but I wrote this much to make you feel better about peeling a ton of peaches.)

The Potato Peeler

I peel potatoes. Lots of potatoes. Why? Because I have a lot of brothers. Too many to count. Mom says there are seven, but I guess about a hundred. And they eat a lot of potatoes. I peel piles and piles and piles and piles and piles of potatoes. It gets pretty boring. But they keep eating piles and piles and piles and piles of potatoes. I don’t understand why that doesn’t get boring. But they never seem tired of it.

I get tired of peeling potatoes, so I don’t see how this is fair.

I like playing with potato peels though – drawing and arranging them into patterns and stories. No one ever wants the peels, just the potatoes. But I do. I have a big pile of potatoe peels in the backyard inside the hollow maple tree. I’m a very little girl, so I curl up just inside it really nice, although I always rip my dress on a root that sticks out by the door. Mom is really tired of sewing it shut, so she makes me do it now.

Inside I have lots and lots of kinds of potato peels. Some are squares and some are circles. Some are spirals and some are short pieces. When I peel potatos, I try to make a game and see how long I can make a peel. Once I even got the whole potato in one peel.

I also made a peel once that looks very like the head of my brother Frederick. I don’t have that one anymore though, because I showed it to Frederick and told him, and he got mad because he said his nose isn’t that big. So he ripped it up. Which made me mad, because it was a really cool peel.

One day, I am going to be famous, because I am going to take all my potato peel art and show it to everyone. And they won’t laugh at me.

Inside my tree hollow, I line everything up on the shelves. One by one I line them up, by kind and by size. When I want to make something, I draw a circle on the floor and build a world. It works well. There are some peels that make good people. And some peels that just make good walls or houses. I make the worlds I read about. They have princes and princesses and knights and horses and lots and lots of pretty things and no one eats any potatoes. I think it sounds like a really good place to be.

Sometimes my stories get really, really good, and I pick the pieces up really carefully and glue them onto paper from my notebook. I even painted some. And I put them in a pile in the corner in a plastic. There isn’ really a good way to hang them from a dirt wall in a tree. Besides, sometimes it gets muddy when it rains and then the paper crumbles up and makes a mess.

I don’t tell my brothers about the potato peel tree, because I don’t want them to laugh at me or rip it up. And they would probably do both.

Every day all my brothers leave with my Dad and are gone for hours. They come back pretty dirty, and they say I’m lucky to stay with Mom all day. I don’t really think so, because when I’m not peeling potatoes I’m usually washing the clothes they keep getting dirty every day. I told Mom there was no point in washing them when they come back just as dirty, but she said that wasn’t the point. I don’t know what the point is then.

Mom is short, thin, and gets mad pretty easy. Her right eye twitches a lot, and she says it’s a nervous habit. I asked why and she told me to stop asking questions. I don’t know why she is always nervous or what a habit is.

Once a week when Dad and the boys come home they bring a couple more big bags of potatoes. They bring other stuff to sometimes, but mostly I just remember the big bags of potatoes. I wish they would go away and never come back. I hate potatoes.

The Girl in the Yellow Dress, or the Ragamuffin Dreamer

(Angela, I'll keep this one going if you want, call me so we can talk about it, but this would be one where the girl would die in the end from a school shooting. I like the girl, but I have several different other pages of notes that take her and the story all over the place. Thoughts?)

The Girl in the Yellow Dress, or the Ragamuffin Dreamer

Have you ever woken up from a really weird dream and not known where you were? With funny sweat beads making your sheets feel gross and eyes that can’t see in the dark? And a strange sense of not knowing where you are? That’s kind of how it felt to walk into the Stravinsky household—constant chaos and confusion from lots of children and animals running around.

Serena Stravinsky was a short girl with big glasses, freckles, pointy ears, and crooked teeth that made it so she couldn’t bite down on an apple. She had a drawer full of what her mother called respectable clothing, but almost always wore her yellow dress with grass stains in the back. Her mother called it a rag, but she called it a play dress, and although she would change obediently when they drove to the library or the store, she was always back inside the dress when she got home.

She was the one kid who didn’t make a lot of sense to most of the other kids. Which didn’t bother Serena, but which worried her mother when her mother had time to worry.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” the teacher wrote on the board. All the kids raised their hands and talked about being doctors or construction managers or dancers or presidents of big companies.

“I’m going to be so rich that I don’t have to ever go into work unless I want to.”

“I’m going to be the world’s greatest dancer.”

Serena listened as the names went around the room, unsure why those sounded like fun.

“And you Serena? What will you be when you grow up?”

Serena hesitated, “I don’t know. But I want to reach the highest branch on my tree at home.”

“That’s very nice Serena, but I mean what do you want to do for a profession?”

Serena knew the teacher wouldn’t like the answer, because her mom didn’t ever either. “I want to find colorful rocks.”

The room bust into laughter until it withered under the teacher’s glare. “Oh a geologist! That’s wonderful!.”

Serena had no idea what she was talking about, but it seemed like a good answer so she nodded. “Yeah, one of those.” The teacher went on to Peter, to Serena’s relief.

“Psst, stupid, that’s a really dumb idea. Who wants to look for rocks?” 

Sweating out Serenity

(Angela - This is the poetry that somehow won the BYU portfolio contest. I think it must have been subject originality, because I don't see as it's that good otherwise, but I had a lot of fun writing it.)

Sweating Out Serenity

Birthing Muscle

The sweat drips.                 

The muscles shake.

The arms quiver.

The stomach aches.

The nausea sours the throat.

The body holds the plank.

It’s not the first 2 minutes that muscle make;

It’s the 30 seconds past fatigue.

The sweat drips,

The time ticks,

I hold the plank.

I hear sweet words, “Time’s up!”

I fall.

I gasp from torn lungs,

I tremble with blood racing through my heart,

A new muscle is born.

                                   

Marathon Dialogue

Mile 1 - I believe in winning,

even when my gear is wrong -

Mile 2 - I believe in winning,

even when the finish is far off-

Mile 3 - I believe in winning,

even when some are passing me by -

Mile  4- I believe in winning,

even when it’s arctic, early, and dark-

Mile 5 - I believe in winning,

even when I’m hungry.

Mile 6 - I believe in winning,

even when my shoelace snap-

Mile 7 - I believe in winning,

                  Even when the hill never ends-

Mile 8 - I believe in winning,

                  Even when I’m falling far behind-

Mile 9 - I believe in winning,

                  Even when my tongue turns to sandpaper-

Mile 10 - I believe in winning,

                  Even when I'm hungry.       

Mile 11 – I believe in winning,

                  Even when my ipod dies-

Mile 12 – I believe in winning,

                  Even when I’m not yet half done -

Mile 13 – I believe in winning,

                  Even when so many run ahead-

Mile 14 – I believe in winning,

                                    Even when pit stops are all out of fruit -

Mile 15 – I believe in winning,

                  Even when I’m hungry.

Mile 16 – I believe in winning,

                  Even when shoes blister fire-

Mile 17 – I believe in winning,

                  Even when many miles are left-

Mile 18 – I believe in winning,

                  Even when fast runners have finished-

Mile 19 – I believe in winning,

Even when the sunshine leeches my sweat-

Mile 20 – I believe in winning,

                  Even when I’m hungry.

Mile 21 – I believe in winning,

                  Even when water runs out-

Mile 22 – I believe in winning,

                  Even when I want to give up-

Mile 23 – I believe in winning,

                  Even when everyone else has won-

Mile 24 – I believe in winning,

                  Even when sudden concrete peels my knees-

Mile 25 – I believe in winning,

                  Even when I’m very hungry.

Mile 26 – I believe in winning,

                  Even if I finish last-

Mile 26.2 – I believe in winning,

                  Because I never quit.

                                   

Calm with courage, to court disasters.

Sweat weaves courage from my muscles.

Fear sizzles out under the water of courage

Earky, dark, freezing

One Runner's Catharsis, or How to Clean a Heart

You run and you run. Until you can run no more.

Toenails blacken; muscles turn sore.

Lungs claw for air, heart hammering skin.

Your feet talk out the pain, until your voice is freed. 

Then you fall to your knees.

You pray and you pray. Until you can pray no more.  

Throat dries; voice turns hoarse. 

Mind pleads for release; heart yearning peace.

Your voice rambles out the pain, until your words are freed.

Then you fall to a journal.

You write and you write. Until you can write no more.

Fingers cramp; pages turn black.

Words pour into order, heart beginning release.

Your ink squeezes out the pain, until your tears are freed.

Then you fall to the floor.

You cry and you cry. Until you can cry no more.

Eyes swell shut; teardrops pour.

Body, spirit, thoughts, emotions run clear—

Peace floods your heart, until your self is freed.

                 

                  Then you stand.

Your heart beats normal. Your heart beats sure.

You brace your heart and walk on, cleansed, ready for more.

Calm with courage, to court disasters.

Sweat weaves courage from my muscles.

Fear sizzles out under the water of courage

When is it Good Enough?

                 

Juxtapositions Rainstorms Bring to Mind

Torrents of water, pounding into the earth,

Torrents of messages, pounding in my ears,

Torrents of thoughts, pounding  around my mind,

Torrents of music, pounding through my fingers,

Torrents of blood, pounding up my veins,

Torrents of feet, pounding out a dance, 

Torrents of hands, pounding with a rhythm,

Torrents of pain, pounding down my tear ducts,

Torrents of joy, pounding amidst my heart,

Torrents of words, pounding past my pen,

Torrents of peace, pounding all to stillness,

Torrents of love, pounded by nails to a cross,

Torrents of energy, pounding and shaping us into who we should be.

"Courage is the art of being the only one who knows you're scared to death."