Zoo Story

My favorite thing about sleep are those pre-sleep dreams. I know nothing of the technicalities behind them, but I absolutely am in love with these odd little dreams that pop in and out of the mind right when I'm rolling into the moments of half-sleep and half-wake. It's evidence of a beautiful moment, just being able to close your eyes and let go of your thoughts so they can swim around, free, for a while. Late last night between the pillowed support of my mattress and covers, respectfully, a thought, or more a memory, jutted into my head. I mulled over it for a while, then finally, couldn't delay my excitement any longer and sprung from the warm cocoon I had myself wrapped up in to read The Zoo Story. Those of you that have read Albee's twisted play, I'm sure, can understand why it refused to leave it's latched position in my mind. For those of you who aren't quite sure what I'm talking about, please, let me enlighten: http://www.douban.com/group/topic/7721039/

I was so glad that for some reason this ran back into my head because it's so curiously interesting. For that reason alone, I thought I'd share. If you have a spare moment, enjoy. I can ensure you won't be disappointed. 

Drowning

I hit the water and the hazy world slips out of focus, it's last images left swirling above me. Further and further I fall with no resistance. I feel the pressure of the explosive air, begging to leak from my lungs. A twisted pleasure lives in the seconds that flick by that leave me knowing I should be immersed in panic... seconds where I find myself reveling in the mysterious, quiet lulls of the water. I want to stay there, to hold on to the still of the silence just a little bit longer. The feel of the water, it's cool existence surrounding me and eating my burdens alike. But timing is everything- a second too long and I'm forever swallowed by the calm chaos, a second too soon and I reemerge unsatisfied.
It's about the peace, the quiet; the surging power found in a cheated moment. It's not the fear of drowning that serves as the drug, but the beauty in the first breath of that crisp, sweet air when my head breaks the surface and the sound of life is no longer muffled. It's the moments of doubt and repentance when my body and mind separate- one pushing towards the rest of the world, the other protected by that deep blue barrier. Even amist the water all around me, my body is lit on fire. The desperate need to salvage my soul battles the desperation to drown. I'm never sure which will win the race against time; I'm never quite sure I'll be able to breathe again.
When I drown in my own mind, my whole body mimics the water. I see my sadness, my anger, my emotion mirrored back at me like a reflection. More pain, and the air stops coming, my eyes can no longer see. I am hollow, all that is left is the sting in my pupils and the soft feel of water everywhere on my skin.
The path that my tears traverse pull dark memories to the surface, like the mascara running down her face. Her eyes are a shocking blue, proof of the water that's welling beneath them. She hides behind her own barriers, like the water does for me; this stolen moment allowing us to see a flicker of who she is when her guard is let down. It's foggy, like the world she lives in, and she's numb, no longer wanting to feel what's around her. She cries, cries, cries searching for an escape from herself, a way to jump in the water. The background is deep and dark, like her  mood. Our eyes are drawn to the direct approach of the shot, like we see her but it would be an imposition if she knew we were looking. It's a moment in it's purest form, stolen and frozen- personal. She doesn't make eye contact, because she's afraid if someone ever really looks at her, they'll see more than she wants them to. They'll see that she's drowning, that she's broken, and that she's not looking to be saved.

Images

Dorothea Lange: Photography

I'm not very observant. As an aspiring writer and advocate of the arts, this is disappointing. It really worries me, all jokes aside. It's not that I don't notice obvious things, that's not necessarily the case. I just can't really look at something and see things that aren't blatant. I like photography though- the thought of capturing a moment forever in time is something magical. But since I feel I'm hindered by lack of knowledge and skills in this department, I'll tell you what I DO notice, as well as what I feel the background might be.

You see, when I look at this photo, I get curious about what its story is. Why was it taken? From the title I assume the white man with the car, indicating wealth and societal status, is the plantation overseer. He also has his leg up, resting it on the car- almost claiming it to be his, the way his positioning also suggests those behind his are "his" as well. This leads me to believe that the group of black men on the porch stairs were most likely "property" of the plantation, working the fields. I start asking questions when I notice the sign on the porch, though, meaning it's probably some sort of store. From the way the black men are positioned, sitting and sort of nestled behind the white man, they look smaller and give off the feel that they're less significant. It's challenging to decide whether his stance is protecting them, or claiming them. There is the profile of a man on the far left, he's white as well, and it almost looks to me like he's smiling but there isn't enough of his face turned to be able to be sure. The dynamic between the overseer and himself is conflicting, and whether it was intentional or not, it intrigues my focus to the man on the left and draws it away from the actual subject of the photo. I suppose from the title's context I would have assumed this photograph to make me feel sad, but when as I look at it now I don't. For some reason, I don't categorize this as any typical relationship between this group of men.
What I'm really curious about is whether or not the photographer is black or white. I'm wondering about this because of the angle the shot is taken from. The photographer's point of view would be between two white men, and across from the African Americans. 

As I look at the photo, I wonder what it would look like if it had been taken in color. Would that have changed the feel of the photo?  I find it hard to imagine it in anything but black and white since the lack of color matches the lack of emotion on the faces of the people in it. Ironically though, perhaps color would change every single thing about the photo since black and white separated  those very same people on such a large scale back in 1936...

Why I Write

Anger. 

Elation. 

Pain. 

Loathing. 

Stress. 

Jealousy. 

Tribulations. 

Excitement.  

Challenges. 

Fear.

 Change. 

Hope. 

I write for myself, solely, because I feel these things. I write because I feel. 

I write for my passion, for languages ability to capture feeling and make it tangible.

I write so that the tumorous and searing pains in my head can drip through my fingers, spread through the ink, and infect the words they take shape in instead of my mind. 

I write so I can sleep. So that at night, when I lay in my mound of blankets, it's only the outside-my-head noise that needs to be blocked out.

I write so that a beautiful moment is captured in all it's glory. I write to continue time, and to cheat it.  

I write in order to remember. But most often, I write to forget. 

Words operate like a lovely illusion. I re-read them to slow the seconds from passing; delete them and they're gone. 

I think most of all, I write to torment myself. Perhaps this is in hopes of the torment itself being enough; to feel the pain of the memories burning in my mind again, and then the sweet release of the words that allow me to throw that pain away. Repeat, repeat, repeat the pattern- to remember, then forget. 

I write selfishly, and in vain. Not to create works of art and leave my name behind in a glorious tribute to my sheer greatness. 

No. 

I play games with my head. Write to resurrect the emotion, relive the moment, relic in the sad remains of the something that's long dead in time's hand, but very much alive in the phrases of my literature. 

I write for control. 

I write for myself, solely, because I feel.