Thanks for the Memories (assignment 4)
The smell instantly pervades my nostrils as we enter the perfume store. It stings. Tears are mounting, an itching redness creeping out from the corners of my eyes. Dryness in my throat, my esophagus begins to gasp and writhe. A harsh pit within my stomach fills with acid and bile; it begins to pull at the back of my tongue. It slips into my mouth with a final lunge as I leave the room. A sickly mix of vomit and saliva drips from the grate on the side of street. Fresh air flows into my lungs and the noxious smell is swallowed by the welcomed stench of asphalt and rubbish.
The bench presses into my back. I feel my shoulder blades being pushed and pulled in a quiet war with gravity, one forced higher than the other. My right hand upon my abdomen, I feel my heart beating in my stomach. My left hand hangs towards the ground, one nail tapping lightly upon the gravel. Strands of hair bend slightly and hint at the whisper of a breeze. The air is warm and slightly sweetened with the flavor of summer flowers.
At a mere 2.50 euro, food has never been so good. The garlic pushes forcefully into my taste buds, while the yogurt flirts playfully in the background. Lettuce crunches and explodes between my teeth and the fibers of meat pull across my gums. My stomach is screaming in anticipation. I lick the paper, hoping that the last remnants of tomato and the lingering bread crumbs will be as flavorful as the full bites that had gone before them. They are. Indeed, food has never been so good.
His pants were the color of stale floss. No, not white. They were that worn out, minty fresh green that you can taste in the back of your eyes with each plaque filled pull. And after all, why not? Perhaps they didn’t match his burnt orange button up in the traditional sense of the word “fashion”, but he made it work. Besides, Oscar Wilde did remind us that fashion is a form of art so vile that we must change it every two months. Maybe this man is simply ahead of the curve. He’s a trend setter. Clearly. The stains across his clothing—simply blots of creativity leaking through. The grease in his hair—just looking for enough sheen to help out someone in need of a mirror. The cut of his pants, a few inches short of normal—trying to keep from dragging out the floss in the event of a puddle. Indeed, he’s got it down.
Einstein Bitte. I swear that’s what they are saying. No, don’t worry, I know that they are actually saying something about exits. Tar pulls at my jeans, making a dark adhesive bind between me and the u-bahn seat beneath me. An unwashed and humid smell lurks towards me from a man holding the overhead railing. I tell myself he has every right to grasp the railing, even if it does mean unleashing a smell of such epic proportions. Regrettably, I’ve never been good at rationalizing.
The child crinkles his brow in anger, yet a smile still pulls across his squishy little face. He throws the ice cream cone at the Turkish man. He deserved it; after all, it is really rather cruel to deny a child ice cream. The man toys with him for an eternity of 45 seconds and eventually yields. The child laughs with delight as he begins to shove the marshmallow like ice cream into his mouth.
I gaze down at the sticky brown butterscotch seeping into my bleachy pale jeans. That’s going to stain. I wonder if making cupcakes was really worth having a shit colored stain on my favorite jeans. It will certainly lead to questionable and awkward conversations in the future. But a student of my budget can’t really afford to find replacements, especially not after living in Europe for two months. I decide that the cupcakes were worth the trouble. All I needed was to see the smile on Joe’s and Daniel’s face when I brought them a plate. After all, stains are like scars for clothing—they tell stories of life’s little adventures.
I am writing on the Berlin Wall. My ballpoint pen scratches at the worn concrete, desperate leave a mark. I try to think of something clever. After all, this is the Berlin Wall. An inane “Catherine wuz here” simply won’t do. Flakes of sand and history crumble to the ground beneath the scratching of my pen. Is such damage worth proving I was here? Is it damage at all? I carve in the words “Smile, the world is a beautiful place” and step back. You can’t even see my writing from a foot away.
I never knew that Santa could swing dance. His shirt isn’t red, nor does his belly protrude and press against mine as we dance. But his rosy smile and fluffy white beard are most certainly those of my long lost imaginary idol. His hands are somewhat chalky, they tell of his age, or perhaps of a poor use of talcum powder. His skill whirls me across the floor. An airy and playful technique that hints towards years of experience. At his age, I think he learned to dance in the actual 1920’s.
Falling cherry. It silently crushes onto the top of my shoe. The owner looks down upon the ashy scene. He takes another drag, long and slow. Lazy eyes pull themselves from the ground and I am met with an empty gaze. The pupils do not change, the eyes do not focus; I doubt he sees me. Greasy hair is pushed to one side with his free hand as the smoke dips from his mouth and into the crevices of his cracked lips. He breathes in as if to sigh, pulling the trails of nicotine back in through his nose. He briefly returns to my shoe and the turns away.
Its wings are twitching. Grayish green blood oozes onto the pavement from its crushed abdomen. The remaining four legs pull feverishly at the ground. It is caught in the sticky adhesive of its own blood, but eventually it inches forward slightly. Its head is turned to one side, even as it moves. Its eye is dragging along the stone. The cornea is torn and shattered as the fragile membranes rip along the stone. It tries to pull itself into the air, but the wings are destroyed. It comes to rest.
The first drip sizzles upon the hot plate. I tap the extra grounds from the grinder and marvel over the stream of happiness gracing my coffee mug. The forming pool whirls about the ceramic sides, quietly splashing as the last drops fall from the pot. The smell drifts towards me. My lips seal against the mug and the angle of my wrist begins to rotate. Heat in my mouth. Warmth through my throat. Soft, stimulated tranquility.
Peter Fox whispers in my ears. We skip down the street, tapping our shoes in a style not unlike that of Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. A rainbow casts an iridescent shadow before us. Entranced, we follow its guide. Who knew Candy Mountain was actually in Germany. We gorge ourselves on the saccharine spread before us. Charlie the Unicorn joins us, fresh from his kidney transplant surgery. We begin to sing merrily over happiness flavored truffles as a sunset dances an awe inspiring show with a backdrop of shooting stars. True story. Seriously.
She lies on the railing. Her sports bra still damp from the run. She breathes deeply, her ribs pressing against her skin with each pull. Her thin frame hangs from the red railing, looking more like a shine of dew than a human form. Her legs are still shaking lightly, her arms ebb and flow with her breath. Drops of sweat from an auburn curl of hair. Her breath finally comes to rest, her chest rising slightly less with each inhale.
It hurts. It burns. The acid eats at my skin and I can feel my life washing away. My throat is torn, my voice scratches as I cough. I look down. A sickly yellow color with strings of red. I am momentarily concerned, but it is nothing I’ve never seen before. My teeth are throbbing. Looking in the mirror I can see how they have become thin. The edges are growing more and more transparent. And yet, I push harder. I dig my fingers deeper. My body heaves and spasms. I wonder if it will ever forgive me for what I’ve done.
The pocket watch glistens in the afternoon sun. I don’t have 30 euro. I wind it. I can feel the metal spinning in my fingers; I can feel the clicks of turning gears as the hands begin to move. I don’t have 30 euro. Tick Tock. Such a soothing sound. It reminds me of consistency, of a more organized world. His eyes are pushing at my fiscal inhibitions. I shouldn’t have 30 euro. The table is rickety, one leg slightly shorter than the others. It shakes as people walk by through the busy market. I once had 30 euro.
The bench presses into my back. I feel my shoulder blades being pushed and pulled in a quiet war with gravity, one forced higher than the other. My right hand upon my abdomen, I feel my heart beating in my stomach. My left hand hangs towards the ground, one nail tapping lightly upon the gravel. Strands of hair bend slightly and hint at the whisper of a breeze. The air is warm and slightly sweetened with the flavor of summer flowers.
At a mere 2.50 euro, food has never been so good. The garlic pushes forcefully into my taste buds, while the yogurt flirts playfully in the background. Lettuce crunches and explodes between my teeth and the fibers of meat pull across my gums. My stomach is screaming in anticipation. I lick the paper, hoping that the last remnants of tomato and the lingering bread crumbs will be as flavorful as the full bites that had gone before them. They are. Indeed, food has never been so good.
His pants were the color of stale floss. No, not white. They were that worn out, minty fresh green that you can taste in the back of your eyes with each plaque filled pull. And after all, why not? Perhaps they didn’t match his burnt orange button up in the traditional sense of the word “fashion”, but he made it work. Besides, Oscar Wilde did remind us that fashion is a form of art so vile that we must change it every two months. Maybe this man is simply ahead of the curve. He’s a trend setter. Clearly. The stains across his clothing—simply blots of creativity leaking through. The grease in his hair—just looking for enough sheen to help out someone in need of a mirror. The cut of his pants, a few inches short of normal—trying to keep from dragging out the floss in the event of a puddle. Indeed, he’s got it down.
Einstein Bitte. I swear that’s what they are saying. No, don’t worry, I know that they are actually saying something about exits. Tar pulls at my jeans, making a dark adhesive bind between me and the u-bahn seat beneath me. An unwashed and humid smell lurks towards me from a man holding the overhead railing. I tell myself he has every right to grasp the railing, even if it does mean unleashing a smell of such epic proportions. Regrettably, I’ve never been good at rationalizing.
The child crinkles his brow in anger, yet a smile still pulls across his squishy little face. He throws the ice cream cone at the Turkish man. He deserved it; after all, it is really rather cruel to deny a child ice cream. The man toys with him for an eternity of 45 seconds and eventually yields. The child laughs with delight as he begins to shove the marshmallow like ice cream into his mouth.
I gaze down at the sticky brown butterscotch seeping into my bleachy pale jeans. That’s going to stain. I wonder if making cupcakes was really worth having a shit colored stain on my favorite jeans. It will certainly lead to questionable and awkward conversations in the future. But a student of my budget can’t really afford to find replacements, especially not after living in Europe for two months. I decide that the cupcakes were worth the trouble. All I needed was to see the smile on Joe’s and Daniel’s face when I brought them a plate. After all, stains are like scars for clothing—they tell stories of life’s little adventures.
I am writing on the Berlin Wall. My ballpoint pen scratches at the worn concrete, desperate leave a mark. I try to think of something clever. After all, this is the Berlin Wall. An inane “Catherine wuz here” simply won’t do. Flakes of sand and history crumble to the ground beneath the scratching of my pen. Is such damage worth proving I was here? Is it damage at all? I carve in the words “Smile, the world is a beautiful place” and step back. You can’t even see my writing from a foot away.
I never knew that Santa could swing dance. His shirt isn’t red, nor does his belly protrude and press against mine as we dance. But his rosy smile and fluffy white beard are most certainly those of my long lost imaginary idol. His hands are somewhat chalky, they tell of his age, or perhaps of a poor use of talcum powder. His skill whirls me across the floor. An airy and playful technique that hints towards years of experience. At his age, I think he learned to dance in the actual 1920’s.
Falling cherry. It silently crushes onto the top of my shoe. The owner looks down upon the ashy scene. He takes another drag, long and slow. Lazy eyes pull themselves from the ground and I am met with an empty gaze. The pupils do not change, the eyes do not focus; I doubt he sees me. Greasy hair is pushed to one side with his free hand as the smoke dips from his mouth and into the crevices of his cracked lips. He breathes in as if to sigh, pulling the trails of nicotine back in through his nose. He briefly returns to my shoe and the turns away.
Its wings are twitching. Grayish green blood oozes onto the pavement from its crushed abdomen. The remaining four legs pull feverishly at the ground. It is caught in the sticky adhesive of its own blood, but eventually it inches forward slightly. Its head is turned to one side, even as it moves. Its eye is dragging along the stone. The cornea is torn and shattered as the fragile membranes rip along the stone. It tries to pull itself into the air, but the wings are destroyed. It comes to rest.
The first drip sizzles upon the hot plate. I tap the extra grounds from the grinder and marvel over the stream of happiness gracing my coffee mug. The forming pool whirls about the ceramic sides, quietly splashing as the last drops fall from the pot. The smell drifts towards me. My lips seal against the mug and the angle of my wrist begins to rotate. Heat in my mouth. Warmth through my throat. Soft, stimulated tranquility.
Peter Fox whispers in my ears. We skip down the street, tapping our shoes in a style not unlike that of Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. A rainbow casts an iridescent shadow before us. Entranced, we follow its guide. Who knew Candy Mountain was actually in Germany. We gorge ourselves on the saccharine spread before us. Charlie the Unicorn joins us, fresh from his kidney transplant surgery. We begin to sing merrily over happiness flavored truffles as a sunset dances an awe inspiring show with a backdrop of shooting stars. True story. Seriously.
She lies on the railing. Her sports bra still damp from the run. She breathes deeply, her ribs pressing against her skin with each pull. Her thin frame hangs from the red railing, looking more like a shine of dew than a human form. Her legs are still shaking lightly, her arms ebb and flow with her breath. Drops of sweat from an auburn curl of hair. Her breath finally comes to rest, her chest rising slightly less with each inhale.
It hurts. It burns. The acid eats at my skin and I can feel my life washing away. My throat is torn, my voice scratches as I cough. I look down. A sickly yellow color with strings of red. I am momentarily concerned, but it is nothing I’ve never seen before. My teeth are throbbing. Looking in the mirror I can see how they have become thin. The edges are growing more and more transparent. And yet, I push harder. I dig my fingers deeper. My body heaves and spasms. I wonder if it will ever forgive me for what I’ve done.
The pocket watch glistens in the afternoon sun. I don’t have 30 euro. I wind it. I can feel the metal spinning in my fingers; I can feel the clicks of turning gears as the hands begin to move. I don’t have 30 euro. Tick Tock. Such a soothing sound. It reminds me of consistency, of a more organized world. His eyes are pushing at my fiscal inhibitions. I shouldn’t have 30 euro. The table is rickety, one leg slightly shorter than the others. It shakes as people walk by through the busy market. I once had 30 euro.
posted by Catherine at
2:21 AM
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