From Hell To Breakfast, Part II

Scattered through the box you will find about 6 pairs of glasses: a child sized pair with round frames and a blue tortoiseshell pattern, a larger pair of silver half frames , a pair of reddish brown plastic half frames with chips in the lenses, a brown plastic pair with squarish lenses, a blue plastic pair with even squarer lenses, and a wide purple metal pair with very square lenses. These are all the glasses I’ve owned since I began wearing them in sixth grade. Each of them represents a period in my life and reflects a slightly different version of me. I wore the first pair from sixth until eighth grade. They were definitely glasses made for a preteen. They were sort of dorky and bookish, which is what I was in middle school. Around the middle of eighth grade I got the silver pair. They were sleeker and more grown up, but still had that nerdy look to them. Then in ninth grade I started wearing contacts almost exclusively. I was very “goth” and didn’t feel that heavy black eyeliner went well with glasses.
I continued to wear contacts until eleventh grade, when I started wearing glasses again. That was when I got the reddish-brown pair. I still wore contacts, but I liked the option of wearing glasses if I chose. They were sort of nerdy but by that time it was cool to wear thick rimmed glasses. The next pair I got I was pressured to get by a friend, and I never really liked them. I didn’t feel they fit my face and they were too narrow, so I took to wearing my old glasses even though the prescription was expired. Interestingly enough, at that point in my life I made a lot of decisions based on what others thought, usually to similar results.
The last time I got glasses I actually got two pairs: the blue pair and the purple pair. I like the purple pair the best, but I do wear the blue pair on occasion. I picked them both out myself and I like them better than any pair I’ve previously worn. They are distinctive and unique, but aren’t weird looking, which is what I strive for. Each pair of glasses embodies a different me. With the first pair, I was just beginning to establish a separate identity for myself. Prior to that point, fashion and the way one looks never really affected me. With each progressive pair of glasses, however, I refined both my outward appearance and my outlook on life. The bolder my choice in eyewear, the more definitive my personality became. I see my glasses as a very recognizable extension of myself. It is almost that a person can see my glasses without me attached and just know that they are mine. For me, they are a definitive accessory, and a necessary one at that. I look to each March (the month I get my eye exam) as a chance to renew myself. As such, I look at my old glasses as monuments, however small and inconsequential, to all the people I have been.
Buried deeper in the box is a black Sharpie. I rarely make tentative statements. Generally, when I say or think something, it is the next best thing to being written in stone. It takes a lot to convince me to change my mind once it is made up. Sharpies are very permanent. You don’t write something in black permanent marker unless you intend for it to be there a long time. Not only is it permanent, it is thick and bold. This very much embodies my habit of making bold, certain statements.
At the bottom of the box is a folded up piece of black canvas. Upon closer inspection, one discovers that it is a full length trench coat. If pressed, I would have to say that this is my absolute favorite possession. My mom bought it for me for Christmas a few years ago. It has survived a move to Kansas, a trip to Mississippi, and about 5 moves within Butte County. When I could bring only what I could carry out on my back, I have brought this coat. It is a shield, insulating me against the world. It acts as a buffer when I don’t want to be bothered and grabs attention when I feel unnoticed. It is dramatic, worn, sturdy, and unique. This is the single most defining item I own. I intend to own this coat in some incarnation or another for as long as I can stand up to put it on. Often I wear clothes that are distressingly normal and I feel like a fraud. It’s only when I put on my trench coat, my Converse shoes, my black eyeliner, that I feel like the real me.
My belongings are scattered from hell to breakfast. I have left pieces of myself in nearly every county in the state. But there are a few things I will not leave behind. The reason why these items are so important is not based on their usefulness or practicality. None of them is particularly valuable. If I were in a bind and decided to hawk my most precious belongings at the nearest pawn shop, I’d be lucky to get $50 for the whole lot. The value in these objects lies in the fact that they are irreplaceable. Sure, I could buy a new Sharpie or a new pair of chopsticks. A quick trip to Hottopic in the mall and about $80 would buy me a new trench coat. However, it wouldn’t be the same. My trench coat is missing all the buttons and is faded thanks to the time my mom thought that “dry clean only” was merely a suggestion. My chopsticks were bought in an oriental specialty store in Starkville, MS. These things have stories. They remind me of me, a person I all too often forget. I can buy new dishes. I can buy a new bed, a new computer. These things mean nothing to me. Each time I move and have to leave more and more behind, I realize that everything is cheap and replaceable. The memories and dreams that each of these represent are not. That is why I always pack these things first. Read more!

From Hell to Breakfast

A few months back while I was still enrolled in school, I had to write an essay for english. Now, I've always prided myself on my superior essay-writing abilities (yes, I know that was a terribly immodest comment) and I was particulary proud of this essay. Unfortunately, I never had the chance to turn it in because the week I finished it also ended up being the week I dropped out (more on that later). So in the hopes that this poor essay will actually see the light of day, I've decided to post it here thinking that at least one person might read it, and also in the hopes that if anyone ever reads it, they can learn a little bit about me. I'm going to post it in a few parts because it's rather long (about 4 pages) and that's a bit much to read in one sitting. Unless of course one is like me and reads through the entire archives of other peoples blogs in one afternoon.

(The Essay prompt included a paragraph from an essay we had read in class where the author compared herself to a "crumpled paper bag of miscellany", which is what the intro paragraph responds to.)
_________________________________________________________
From Hell To Breakfast

I am less a bag of crumpled paper than I am a cardboard box, bent at odd angles with the corners worn, the seams taped and re-taped over more moves than I can count on my two hands. It is box hastily packed in the twilight, stuffed with seemingly incongruous artifacts of an implausible existence. It is a scene played over and over in my life. The setting may change, but the act does not. Though the scene in itself is curious enough, the question arises as to what it is that may be found in the box. What is it that makes these items so important that they absolutely must be packed, as opposed to something more practical, more useful in a quick getaway such as this?

It’s not that there is anything very special to be found inside the box, but memories and dreams that are yet to be. A small wooden box filled with letters to a boy who forgot to become a man. Letters that span 6 years, every one I ever wrote. Drawings, photos, a scrap of napkin with half a poem. Notes passed in class and a journal kept for the 6 months he was far away. I cannot bear to part with these memories of my past. He was my first real friend. He was my first love. He was my first betrayal. And so I keep them. They remind me of so many things I have done, how I thought and talked. My art and first real attempts at serious writing. They don’t just represent a dear friend lost, they represent the entire person I was for over 6 years. It seems strange to say that a bunch of letters and other junk is me, but it is. It is a different me, but a me nonetheless. How many other people have a such a clear record of a defining period of their lives?

Another item in the jumble that stands out is a pair of ornate ebony chopsticks with mother of pearl inlaid dots at the top. Other than being a very fancy set of eating utensils, these embody my love of culture and hunger for things beyond myself. I love oriental things, especially Japanese, and these chopsticks remind me of what I love so much of a culture so foreign to me. I love the formality and tradition of Japan. I love the language, written it is art in itself, and spoken it falls melodically on my ears. In America we are sometimes lacking in the beauty of ritual and custom that many other cultures employ. In a merging together of so many different ideas, many are lost. I hope that I can create a little beauty and tradition in my own life, even if everything around me is a whirlwind of chaos.

_________________________________________________________

I'll post the rest of the essay tomorrow or the next day.

--dragon Read more!