Exerpt from my untitled novella

GOLF COURSE


Summers in Plainsboro were hot, drawn out, and boring. Even the smallest of adventures seemed epic. Walking to the local shopping plaza via the breezy hills of the golf course is both nostalgic and memorable. The rich, old men playing golf would watch you cross the course while you uneasily gauged their anger based on posture; some waved, some shooed us like old housecats, a few even shouted. The interaction was a wild gamble and even more than a shortcut, it provided us with sustaining, unpredictable entertainment. The apartment complexes barricaded the over-priced outlet for retired people and doctors like fortresses. Hordes of white, black, and Latino youths would exercise their adolescence as they skirted along the perimeter, much to the chagrin of the upscale owners.

A man-made pond on the golf course stood directly behind my bedroom window. I would often walk by and hear the frogs "ribbit" loudly then pop back into the pond with just the tiniest splash. The golfers never approached that side of the pond, so even the slightest noise disturbed the creatures’ quiet utopia. Their mating calls lulled me to sleep on more than one balmy night.

Only once, I can remember my mother's boyfriend hauling his telescope out onto the golf course. While we gazed at stars, I remember being thrilled by the forbidden, late night excursion in my pajamas, but also slightly afraid of outer space, -planets, stars, and all that existed beyond. Those enigmatic, glowing balls of fire were too real, too sobering for my tweenhood of boy bands and sleepovers. That night, two popular kids from my class, cigarettes in hand, wandered over to our position in curiosity. My mother, cheerful as always, invited them to look through the scope. I was mortified in their presence; there I stood with my family, fourteen years old, clad in a Looney Tunes nightgown on a golf course at night, terrified to even peek at the stars. There is something indecent and humiliating about classmates, especially popular ones, seeing you in your sleeping clothes. The only compensation was the darkness; the well-liked couple pretended not to recognize me from class. In retrospect, perhaps they were being kind by refusing to acknowledge me. A worse thought enters my mind; perhaps they did not recognize me. In any of our pithy conversations throughout school, we never, ever mentioned it.

Sometimes, usually at sundown, I would sit on the hills separating the golf course from the fortress of apartment complexes and write poetry, or what I believed to be poetry. In reality, the words written were stolen quips and half constructed clichés from readings or music liner notes that I found penetrating and impressive. Despite this, I felt serenity in those moments and serenity is a coveted commodity to any teenager. I was aware that my mother would often gaze at me through the window or door, but she never once interrupted my musings.

During the day, I would play pretend games with the smaller children in the neighborhood, including my sister. When I was thirteen years old, I was obsessed with the Chronicles of Narnia and created and acted out a complete fantasy world of wizards, fairies, and dragons. The younger kids were so into it; they followed me everywhere and, months after I lost interest, repeatedly asked if we could play “the game.” I was so mean to them; I shrugged them off and told them to go away. If they did not listen, I even yelled until they scattered like rats.

During those years, I appeared constantly solemn; my sister evokes the word depression to describe the period. She is specifically fond of recalling my fascination with clipping models from magazines and playing with them until I was 15 years old. For my sister, this example highlights the pinnacle of human misery and loneliness, but perhaps that is because it seems so utterly pathetic compared to her own life at that age. While I hesitate to label myself depressed at 15, I did always feel introspective and glum. Some summer days I never even left the house, but we all must remember, the summer was forever at that age and there was always the next day for anything -everything.

Poem from 2004

Blinding Sun

the air smells of change
its time to stare again at the blinding sun
open the blinds
start the car
away

5 strangers in an elevator
awkward silence
different trajectories
different floors
who will be the last one off at the floor on the top?
the top

completley uninspired
not angry not melancholy
rubbish scribed on dead trees
a waste

music echoes through a dark hall
a light at the end
a room of smart
beautiful
healthy urban professionals

they clap for me
but a strong gust of wind blows right through
away
they dissapear only to leave me
i am blinded by the sun"