042803He said I take his breath away... 042703I have always hated the song "Fishing in the Dark." It reminds me of high school dances and a gym full of suburban upper-middle class white kids pretending they know what it's like to be from a small town. Whenever the beat would start, people would flock to the dance floor, tapping out a ho-downish rhythm in their Doc Martens and Steve Maddens. I refused to dance to the mockery. I would stand still, cross my arms, and watch my date try his hardest to get me to stomp along. "Fishing in the Dark" represented everything I was not. I have been fishing three, maybe four times in my life. I have never seen more than a handful of stars in the night sky. I don't know what it's like to rarely hear a siren. "Fishing in the Dark" is another world I know nothing about. --- A country music station was playing faintly in the background as we drove back from East Bay. I wasn't paying much attention to the songs, but my toes still found the rhythm and steadily tapped it away on the car floor. Glancing out the window, I saw nothing but gently rolling hills of semi-green grass. Occasionally, a silo or two added some variety to the scenery. Beyond a rickety wooden fence, a group of cows was basking in the evening light, catching a few rays before sunset. This wasn't the typical scene I saw when driving near my house in Minnesota. There, rolling hills become highway overpasses, silos become office buildings, and cows become gas stations. This place was only an hour and a half from there, but I felt like I was a million light years from where I'd been earlier that day. It took me a second to notice, but "Fishing in the Dark" was playing on the radio. My toes kept on tapping, even through my solid dislike of the song. However, something was different this time around. I wasn't in the BHS gymnasium. My boyfriend, acting as chauffeur for the evening, was driving his parents and me back home from dinner; home being a charming house nestled in a quiet subdivision in Chippewa Falls. I looked over at him, smiled, and turned my attention back to the window. As we climbed a hill, Jake pointed out the location of the yearly "Country Fest" festival that takes over Cadott each summer. "Baby, get ready," echoed through the car's speakers. We came to the top of the hill just as the chorus started and my breath caught in my throat. The sun shone down, illuminating the valley before us. Rays danced off the metal silos, sending shimmering light in every direction. The fields seemed to go on forever. I spun my head every which way and saw nothing but emerald farmland. I couldn't believe how beautiful it all was. This can't be real, I thought to myself. Nothing this breathtaking can exist in the real world. Then I remembered, I wasn't in the real world anymore. I was in a much better place. A place where people tie yellow ribbons on railings and telephone poles. A place where a heard of cattle is an everyday sight. A place where the owner of the local meat market knows you by name. I truly was in a much better place. I was in Wisconsin and I loved it. "Feels so good to be with you," the song called to me. "I couldn't have said it better," I whispered to myself. With my boyfriend next to me, country music on the radio, and nothing but the road ahead of us, I was content. Somehow, in a place I'd never been to, I felt I was home. It seems there is a little country in this city girl after all. 042103"I don't see anything," I yelled from my position on the floor. I was on all fours in a skirt, squinting into the murky darkness underneath my couch. I scanned every inch of the floor. There was one more eluding us, one shady little being that did not want to be found. "Okay, huddle up," Jake called to me. I popped up from behind the couch and sprinted over to him, placing my hands on his shoulders and giving him my best 'tough guy' face. "You found one by the desk, right? I'm thinking there's another one over there." I gave him a look of disbelief. "Alright, desk it is," I said to him and waltzed my way across the reception area. We simultaneously began to tackle the table, the mounds of office supplies and discarded photographs intimidating our search efforts. As Jake delicately lifted items up and moved them around, I haphazardly rummaged through the pile of unwanted items. I knew all of the photographs down here were junk, still in the exact same place from when I finished working last August. I didn't care what I touched or how I handled it. I giggled at Jake. He was trying his best not to disturb anything. Picking up a box of business cards, a huge smile crept across his face. "Ready?" he asked me. Without warning, he whipped the lid off. His smile faded to a frown as the box yielded nothing. "Good try," I assured him and quickly resumed to the task at hand. We looked in every cubby, under every piece of paper, in every box, even in the garbage. "Would your mom really put one in there?" Jake questioned as I came up empty handed. "I don't know," I chuckled to him, "she's turning into quite a crafty old lady." When it looked like all hope was lost, I got down on all fours again and wiggled my way under the desk. I lifted up boxes of brochures, peered inside of them, even checked a second time with my hand. I let out a disgruntled sigh. Where could this last little bugger be hiding? I slowly backed out. As I stood up, a green object caught my eye. I turned to Jake and laughed. I closed my fingers around the keyboard tray and began to slide it out. I heard a crunching noise and stopped immediately. Reaching my hand into the tiny space, I wrapped my fingers around the missing egg and pulled it out into the afternoon sunlight. "Ha!" I triumphantly shouted and turned around to show him my trophy. Jake gave me a sly grin. "I told you there was one by the desk." 041503If you knew how lonely my life has been
- Chantal Kreviazuk 041303I watched his eyes slowly flutter closed. He was trying to stay awake, but I knew he desperately needed sleep. I couldn't help but smile at him. He looked so peaceful lying there in the cocoon of blankets I had wrapped around his shivering body. I wished there was something more I could do, something to make him feel better. As I layed down next to him, I knew keeping him company until he was asleep was all I could offer. I reached up and smoothed down a part of his unruly mop top. I slowly massaged his head, twirling strands of his hair in between my fingers. I scooted closer and lightly kissed his chilly nose. He flinched. I didn't know if it was a reaction to the kiss or a reflex from falling into a deep slumber. I didn't know if he knew I was still there; watching him, gazing at his eyelids, hoping for one returned glance in my general direction. Instead, he layed there motionless. My eyes started to move down his face. I wanted to trace it all with my finger, slowly work my way across every inch of his skin. I studied his eyelashes, his cheeks, his freckle-covered nose, lastly coming to his lips. His mouth briefly quivered. I wondered if he could feel my gaze on it. My eyes rested there, unmoving. I could feel the urge well up inside of me. I wanted to lift his chin ever so slightly and brush my mouth against his. I wanted to feel his lips on mine; slowly, rhythmically parting them again and again. I wanted to feel his hand reach up and dance his fingers across my neck. I wanted him to pull me in closer, the heat from our bodies intertwining. I reeled back from my thoughts and rolled over to check the clock. 3:00 am. I leaned in and kissed him above his right eyebrow, lingering for an extra second. "Good night," I softly whispered as I turned off the light and slipped out the door. 041103I'd honestly forgotten what it feels like to be happy. 040403Dawson's Creek does weird things to me... Sometimes I wonder where I'd be if I had gone a different path in life. Would I still be sitting here today if I hadn't skipped class in 10th grade or been accepted to the U or fallen in love? Would I still even be alive for that matter? What is it that decides where we go, what we do, or who we inevitably become? It is by our own doing? Or...is it fate? I've been told all my life that everything happens for a reason. If so, why do we do the things we do? Why are some of us law-abiding citizens while others continuously cause harm? Are we born that way? Are some of us genetically encoded to become teachers, lawyers, or rocket scientists, while others are configured to ultimately fail in life? Who gets to choose? What can we do about it? I like to think I'm in charge of my decisions. However, it is fun to daydream that maybe I was supposed to miss the bus and while walking to class, bump into the man that I'll eventually marry. Regardless, it's up to me. I don't know what tomorrow will bring. None of us, for that matter, know what life has in store for us. We merely go from day to day, hoping we are doing the right thing. I'm unsure of the future, but for the first time in my life, I'm not scared. If I'm alone or attached, poor or wealthy, jobless or employed, I can't wait to see what the future has in store for me. 040203As I sat there with the ball of yarn in my lap, I imagined all the possibilities that could come from it. I saw myself walking to class with a stylish scarf covering my neck. I envisioned my roommates in a trio of stocking caps. I couldn't wait to pick up the needles and criss-cross my way to knitting heaven. However, I neglected to notice the road ahead had some minivan-sized potholes. Every time Karen stood in the middle of the circle of chairs to give directions, my angle of sight prevented me from observing what her hands were doing. I'd sit there, patiently waiting for my private lesson, while the other class members looked on in awe and tried to imitate her fluid movements. She stood next to me and proceeded to give me a condensed version. There was too much yarn, too much crossing over and under, too much I didn't understand. My fingers were frozen in place. I looked up at her with my best 'I'm confused beyond all reason' face. Upon glancing at my unmoving hands, Karen took the hint and put her hands atop mine. "It's this way," she cooed as we moved in perfect harmony. I felt like I was in some bad porno. Pretty soon, our class of 12 would be on the tables and floors in a gang bang. Shaking myself back to reality, I realized I wasn't paying attention to her. "You got it?" she asked me. I sheepishly smiled back and nodded, condemning myself to knitting hell. We learned to cast on. We learned to knit. We learned to pearl. I learned to make big knots in the shape of Calista Flockhart. I consider myself to be girly. I clean. I scrapbook. I wear pink. So why, when it comes to knitting, am I missing that part of the brain? I looked down at my sad excuse for something, anything, knitted and wanted to cry. I slid it off my needles and prepared to start over. Karen came and sat down next to me. "You want me to start it for you? You're a little behind." My entire body shuttered. She had just uttered the phrase I hate most in life. To me, being behind is the kid in the back of the 3rd grade class who does not understand cursive and is gripping his pencil like a clumsy giant. I was never one of those kids. That phrase represents every insecurity I've ever had about myself. I secretly glared at her through the pieces of hair falling in front of my eyes. How dare she say I'm behind. I'm just�a slow learner. "I'll show them" I muttered under my breath. As soon as the metallic probably-overpriced third floor Coffman Union wall clock hit 8:00, I began to pack up my things. I was not about to stick around in this torture chamber any longer. I just needed to hone my knitting skills and I'd be a pro in no time. No task, especially one involving crafts, is too hard for me to handle. Besides, I had a tape of Dawson's Creek waiting for me.
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