Writing

The Suckumentary Revision #3

By Marissa

So Bad It's Good

Revised: 30-Jun-2011
Added: 09-Apr-2011
Canada

Average rating: 10
1 comments
Journal Thoughts Autobiography Random Music

This originally began as merely my own journal, a place to vent at the end of the day. Eventually, the journal grew into something more. Despite it's many flaws and the naivety of early entries, I hope the writing is worthwhile. For some unknown reason, I've decided it's now open for judgement.

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Suckumentary
By Anonymous

* All characters, associations and possibly places will be fictionalized for confidentiality’s (& embarrassments) sake. Wrath be unleashed on those who reveal true identities - you know who you are.

Ahead By a Century
- The Tragically Hip

The sky outside has opened up. It has become one of those rare, but utterly perfect days – you know, the ones we usually just dream of when yellow sunshine divides the clouds and shares it’s warmth with the valley, bringing with it the birds-egg blue of a summer sky. The rippling river glistens at the sudden touch of sunlight, turning all things bright and optimistic at once.
Fighting to be both bright and optimistic, I sit inside, in the dark, dank depths of our basement, so that the illuminated window beside me proffers merely a keyhole. I sometimes wonder how my attentions manage to migrate towards this cool atmosphere versus the great, cheerful outdoors. And yes, it is this laptop. The blank white of an empty page, ready to be etched in ink, and the company of my favourite tunes. If I can’t be content nursing a fresh sunburn in the shade outside, then I can at least seek some solace in writing. It’s simply what I do. I write.
For months – scratch that, years – I have slaved over many potential-less novels. But the diligent plotting, writing, editing, and re-writing fails me every time. I think it’s a twisted process, because whenever inspiration comes to me via random movies, books, T.V., travel, etcetera… I find a reason to stop. My mind treats commitment like a disease. The idea of committing slowly withers the more I try. Any initial visions I have shift as I begin to see the novels in a cruel way. My instinct repels my own handiwork, and thankfully so, because how can I be committed to something so pathetic? So I’m working on the whole commitment thing, but then again… I’ve been working on it since grade four, when homework began invading my perfect life.
Despite all grudges against my own writing, I still find myself back here. A whole month has gone by without one written word, and then, like a force you can’t control, you’re back in the wooden chair. Shitty deal, because I never asked for this. What’s absent so that I can’t simply enjoy the chimes in the breeze or distant planes overhead, sit back in a lawn chair and read? I swear that when I was born, they injected a magnet deep into my wee, defenceless little body where I wouldn’t be able to retrieve it, all the while cackling like wicked magicians from the Adams family. And why in hell is it a computer that reciprocates my magnet? Why can’t it be a hunky, sweet Australian from across the world, so that a romantic search to find each other would forthwith ensue as my life? Wishful thinking.
There is just one problem about writing in the middle of the day; you have nothing to entertain with but your own thoughts. If night was about to fall and my fairly unimpressive slate about to be wiped clean to prepare for tomorrow, then I could simply sum up today’s lameness in one paragraph. Instead, my fortunate friend, you’re treated with a blow-by-blow report.
I may have begun again, another feeble attempt to find something worthy in my talent, but this time is a little different. I’m writing without plans. No Lord of the Rings gore and magnificence, no masterful works of my idolized authors, no sweeping Out of Africa probed me to begin pattering away at the keyboard this time. The heavy treble of Gordon Downie’s voice and heavenly acoustic of Ahead By A Century fills my ears, but that will never change. I always write with music. I live almost every moment of my life with music, so there is no argument there. I start this time, in the heat of insignificant mid-August with only honesty. Hopefully, being truer to my inner instinct this time will serve me well in the long run, because I’m sick of trying, sacrificing my best corny lines and most concrete descriptions to achieve something in literature.
I’ve wanted to pull many things out of my life so far. I’ll try to tick them off the list in timely fashion. First, in early elementary school, I found myself aspiring to be a professional soccer player. Following that, I was a pro equestrian rider. That goal was one I took much more seriously than soccer, but only in certain ways, come to think of it. Guilty as charged, at eleven years of age my friends and I could be found galloping around the playground on our “two-legged horses” with wooden sticks for crops, whinny’s escaping our mouths. Not too promising, eh? But there was a realistic side to the infatuation. I finally convinced my parents to allow riding lessons from my fifth grade teacher’s daughter. From then on I gained experience riding and getting attached to many different horses. I competed in different shows within the community and it was on those cross-country courses that I thought I had found my peace. Particularly when riding a mare named Lacy, who died on us after my third year of loving her, (See “A Tale” by Vesper here). After that, my entire passion for riding careened downwards, through much persistence, until I gave up. And if I don’t let myself think about it, the absolution doesn’t hurt too bad.
By the time my rocky period of riding ended, high school had begun and I set my sights on more serious goals. There was the era of biology; a horse trainer, a vet, a marine biologist, a researcher who travels across exotic countries such as Africa and Asia in search of the endangered species. The era of medicine; a psychologist, a neurologist, a surgeon, a doctor who travels to third world countries to share the magic of medicine. In that era I realized how not keen I was with being responsible for people’s lives. Then came a maelstrom of wild fantasies - a cowgirl, a rock star, an actress, an archaeologist, a photographer, a painter, prime minister (not). A vampire. Blame that one on Stephanie Meyer. A pilot, not just in commercial business, but operating the great thunder of power that is F18, leading the Thornbird’s in air shows across North America. Female pilot’s could definitely kick ass, not only by conquering the notorious tarmac walk – striding across to my own massive jet in my sexy uniform and aviators, wavy hair blowing freely, helmet tucked under one arm. Thus the idea of a model came about, because then I could pose all of these fantastical careers while simply looking beautiful and without the worry of another’s life on my hands. Unfortunately, I’m not model material. Plus, the idea of being a poser just doesn’t cut it for me. So to narrow things down, my priority list consists of travel, art, and, naturally, writing… and so what do you get? Bingo! Freelance journalism. It was perfect; I would take my own photographs, practice writing every day of my life, and travel the world in search of the ideal story, without merely being a typical tourist. If that sci-fi Bram Stoker portion of my interests surfaces again, I could even go so far as to write myth on vampires in Transylvania - who knows?! Every aspiration I ever dreamed of could be delved into, learnt, and retold from another’s eyes. So why am I not consoled? I can’t stand wondering what I want, because I want to know myself better than anyone else and I desperately want to lay out my plans before I make a rash decision. Plus, journalism is not as glamorous as the movies let on. Apparently it’s an unpredictable, unstable, and often boring job spent in the office. Office work is SO not for me.
Let me try being a philosopher for a moment (you‘ll quickly get used to this). Maybe the reason for these penultimate decisions is so that each of us can learn how to live. And by that, I mean to freely make of life what we will, in order to live it best. So will I ever find what I want or where I am going? Not until the day I die and a gravestone is etched with my name will things be certain, I believe. Learning to be content with simplistic happiness is the hardest lesson of all. I was born to try and not give up. In doing so, I should be guaranteed happiness.
In one big, fat, unwanted way, I am a hypocrite. Often I ramble philosophically, not stopping to wonder if my theories and beliefs are correct. They often are, and yet despite that, I never follow my own words. I’m not exactly the epitome of optimism. To live each day trying instead of wondering does not come naturally to me - or maybe that’s just laziness. I’m a nostalgic; so much of my brain capacity is occupied with regrets.
Considering that note, I should refrain from nostalgia, because I am very grateful for my childhood days. Without them I would be empty of humour, humiliation, and humbleness. Back in my day, I say as I puff on a pipe, squinting a withered eye on the horizon from my rocking chair… nah, I shan’t jest at the elders. Seriously though, when I was a kid I did not realize how lucky I was, how fortunate to be raised so well with so many incredible memories. Often I worry whether I took those times for granted, fooling myself to think them untrue. But even on the most horrid of days, those faint but oh-so-sweet memories can crack a smile on my lips. I recall now, at the extremely wizened old age of sixteen, how life had been so wonderfully simple. The old fogies have it the simplest, so in round-a-bout way, sixteen can actually feel quite ancient. When we were young – as in not yet a teen, thank you very much – we knew nothing but happiness, fun, security and confidence. Confidence in our parents to always protect us, unrestrained joy because of that and a freedom to do what we will. It was especially simpler to me because there was nothing to understand of myself. I knew what I wanted and the ways I could get it. I didn’t often think before acting because a child isn’t expected of that. I could bury myself into loads of trouble and still find a way to surface without harm, the reason being because I had so many years ahead to erase the mistakes made. And of course, a good slap on the arse fixed things in my mom’s forgiving mind. However, parents can’t exactly resort to ass spanking anymore, wrath be unleashed if they dare.
I was a confident ball buster of a girl, all through my youngest years. The Christmas I got a “Canadian Girls Kick Butt” t-shirt, my best friend and I tromped around the school at lunch to flaunt and intimidate - definitely embarrassing. I had been a horse nut. Straight and simple, the boys would tease me endlessly at school because of my obvious obsession. I didn’t care, let them laugh. Hell, I was having more fun as a kid, ripping around fields upon those one thousand pound powerhouses than any boy with his plastic, toy gun. I personally saw no thrill in plastic weapon imitations. Now, the thought of horses brings nothing but regret, when once it brought profound joy. I could say so much more without touching the topic of horses, for there is already so much that I miss. I’m not even an old fogie yet, without a rocking chair to reminisce in. Such is the cursed life of a born nostalgic.
So now that you know me, I need a fictional name. How about something totally unrealistic. How about something James Bond? Always wanted to be a Bond girl. Let’s say Vesper. Yes, my name is Vesper - and now I am free to begin. To write and write until one day I might be rewarded with an answer.
Only two weeks remain in the summer and I perish at the thought. Ahead of me is one last holy week with four of the greatest people on earth, my best friends, and then we are confronted by grade eleven. When it comes to school, the going and leaving and obeying and returning (against all instinct), I don’t even attempt to go easy on the dramatics. Literally, I can feel my throat tighten at the thought. My up-chuck reflex is triggered by the thought of Mr. Smith’s sweat stains. Oh, please free me from this agony.
It’s time I braved the scalding sun once again, before evening settles in. My sunburn stings a little from the frown school has plastered to my face. I need to go smooth it out by the hill’s edge.

Folsom Prison Blues
- Johnny Cash

September 2nd, eight years after the millennium. Something terrible has happened in the world, something nobody can run from. The great portion of the world’s population that has been targeted by this travesty grieves, though they grieve without any respite. Prayers are spoken with a bowed head as we face this calamity. Yes, it was the first day of school. And we can only hope that what lay ahead is not nearly as menacing as the imagination predicts.
Ha! Well our hopes are all granted, because menacing does not even begin to do school justice. Heavy on the dramatics, I know, but what student gives a shit?
Apologies if my writing is a little chaotic right now, but my mind is in chaos lately. The colossal adjustment I’ve had to make since summer met it’s end is a wee bit overwhelming. In fact, it should have killed me. Switching from an ideal awakening each morning at nine o’clock, a nice’n’easy breakfast, an eyeful of paradise as the sun breaches the hills and reflects off the lake… it’s not possible to overdose on summer. It’s something your blood just absorbs with unquenchable thirst and now I’ve gone from content to parched. Whether ending my day at home or on the road, nothing compares to stars overhead and a summer breeze as it blows you towards tomorrow. And just as if quitting any addictive drug, I’m suffering.
But now… an ear-splitting alarm clock or the shrill voice of your overly cheerful mother singing “Wake up sunshine!” just doesn’t cut it. While wharfing down my meagre breakfast, I can’t even find the rising sun through all the sleep clouding my eyes and if I did I wouldn’t have time to admire it. Instead of stars overhead and a warm breeze to put me to sleep, I have my conscience needlessly stressing over how much time I’ll need to finish biology homework in the morning. Wake up at 6:30 or 7:00? Hmmm, tough choice… thirty more minutes of school induced nightmares would be so nice. Oh happy days.
The absurdity that dictates how we live out each day is disgusting. Such a simple thing as requesting a spare is overrun by the idea that I might abuse it. Stereotyped is not a trait I settle for, but even the principal won’t take a moment to hear a student’s opinion anymore. First the counsellors ask me, “Why? Why would you want a spare?”. To hit the pit out back and smoke some more weed with my homeboys, bitch.
Lay off the caffeine and open up your eyes - for real.
I’m bombarded by homework every hour of the day, am committed to a volleyball team PLUS a morning volleyball class, work part time almost twenty hours a week, and I can’t sleep at night because I’m over exhausted. I know some of my classmates have it much rougher, but I am not them. When I picture my life, I don’t want to think immediately of school. I want to see the things that make school bearable, like a hard-earned moment between work when I can step outside and take a breath of fresh air, a great movie and a bowl of overflowing popcorn on Friday night, swerving down the road with my shiny red “L” plastered to my parent’s expensive new car… all these things could remind me that there’s more to it than acing your tests and understanding the homework. But they don’t even allow time for that.
Understood, school is top priority, but what happens when we graduate and are faced by classes open for only those who can fish $400 bucks out of their pocket - per class? Our parents aren’t millionaires and the new car requires gas, so… isn’t it obvious, Counsellor Nazi? Give me back my life and I’ll seal my lips.
So, second, she inquires what I want to be when I’m older. Hmm, alive? Sixteen years old and I’m tested with my first significant decision. Physics would be so useful if I was set on a science degree, and yeah, I love science. It brings out the curious side in me, but how far could I take it? Not far enough to earn the big bucks and too far to be happy.
Theatre brings out that far-off, hard to reach bravery in me. Every day in drama class brings on a full-out case of the trembles. I’m a shaker and placing my nerves before thirty students and completely sacrificing myself to humiliation could bring on an earth quake.
It was a test. For three years I took on that challenge and excelled at it. The friends I made in that class are unforgettable, the entertainment never ending, and the things I discovered about myself and other people won’t ever be forgotten. I cried, but it’s a sacrifice I feel would be better in the long run, despite being a decent actress. Having to harness and muster every last bit of confidence into that class has drained me, leaving nothing for the real world. I’m sick of trying to be something that I’m just not, but don't get me wrong, it doesn’t mean I’m not proud of Theatre. I literally cried when I traded that one in.
I’ve always been considered an artist by my family and even my friends, but for some mysterious reason I’ve refused to acknowledge that. So when the principal insists that the only place I’ll ever get a spare is in my dreams, I rethink what talents I have. “Fine, gimme an art class so I can waste my time dribbling ink over parchment and calling it a masterpiece.”
Please, enlighten me. How is that more productive than spending my sixty-seven minutes aiming all of my remaining diligence towards finishing math? Or biology, or any academic subject that requires my maximum attention and could in fact influence my future well-being? Perhaps, if I requested a study block they might reconsider, because a spare suggests that I might actually have free time on my hands, heaven forbid.
So the choice is made. I dropped physics for art.
Oh no, you read correctly.
Art.
A-R-T. Actually. Ridiculously. Tough.
I’m so glad they warned me the moment I made my intentions clear; I need a course with a lighter work load. A spare would be ideal, but hey, art sounds fantastic! That is, until I decided to come clean with my new art teacher.
I was sitting in my new class, humming along to the Bob Dylan they had blaring from the stereo and trying (failing) to do my biology homework, being exempt from the present art project due to my late registration, when Mrs. Lewis herself appeared.
“What are you working on now? Biology?” She inquired.
“Yup.”
She tsked softly to herself. “You’ve got quite a tough workload this semester, don’t you?
I nodded slowly, beginning to feel the least bit guilty. “Yeah, I most definitely do...” I decided to continue along my righteous path of honesty. “Actually that’s sort of the reason I signed up for this class. They wouldn’t allow me a spare and I’m in desperate need for one single class that has a lighter work load.”
Mrs. Lewis nodded, a slight frown puckered on her forehead.
And that’s when I realized how indecent that sounded.
I then had a quick flashback from when I asked my sister for advice about the former dilemma. She had worn the exact same expression as Mrs. Lewis, scrutinizing me. Though silent, her thoughts could have basically been blasted from a fog-horn as I stood alone with my pitiful pride.
Then Anne, my academically accomplished, ever cynical, and intellectually perfect sister, spoke what need not be voiced aloud; “You know what I think? I think you’re wimping out.”
That’s when the flashback became more defined, momentarily pausing on all my friends faces, my parents, my teachers, my principal (Who I’ve known since grade one)… is that how they all saw it? When the counsellors refused to provide a spare, were they actually stepping in? Were they trying to help me and intercept my desire to give up and fail myself?
All the excuses, all the disappointment… I was wimping out! I wimped out on a course that all my friends were capable of finishing, and that my own sister had excelled at. So why couldn’t I?
Quickly I recovered from the shock of Mrs. Lewington’s look - which had just managed to pinprick one of my deepest worries. I’m chicken shit.
“Well, Vesper, I wouldn’t exactly call this class easier than all the others. It is an 11/12 course and will be much more demanding than any other art course you may have taken in the past. In the end, you will have to have completed a portfolio of all you work.”
I nodded, “But it's a different type of work, one that requires creativity over anything else. And most important, I’d enjoy it.”
She considered me in thought, while I prayed that I could still make-up for the slip.
“And besides,” I continued. “Lately, I have been seriously considering art school after graduation. I love art.” BIG, cheesy smile! Just love it. I luuuurve art.
“In that case, you need to take this course. Any art school requires a grade 11/12 portfolio to gain acceptance.”
I sighed. “Well, that makes me feel better.”
“I appreciate your honesty though, and look forward to seeing what you’re capable of.” She gave a me a shrewd once-over. “Good luck with the homework.”
I blushed, naturally. Unfortunately, I’m prone to blushing at the most modest of things, so the company of an extra bout of warm blood in my cheeks didn’t surprise me. I ducked my head instinctively, waiting for the flush to pass as I resumed slaving over biology.
If I’m going to be chicken shit, at least I’m honest.

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Chlor O'Phyll

April 10, 2011 at 4:50 PM PDT

You must be a published author doing this for fun.