Short Story

One of the fun things about being in a writing class is - I'm writing more! LOL. We are supposed to write for timed period based off an object word that is revealed when the timer starts. Doing it in the morning "wakes up the writer for the day" and gets ideas flowing. (it's really true, and awesome, rather than thinking in Tweets and Facebook status updates, I'm thinking in stories, descriptions, verbs and lyrics!) Later on we are encouraged to pull images from the object writing into our lyrics. This morning I had 10 minutes to write about "Ice Cube" and this is what came out.

The ice cubes crackled and sang when they hit the water in the tall ocean-blue glass, and gently clinked on the way back to the table. The dewy sides quickly left a wet ring on the paper tablecloth. With a muttered thank you to the waiter she picked up the glass and pressed it to her sweating forehead. She didn't care when the water sloshed over the sides when she rolled the glass to the back of her neck. Who's idea of paradise was it where every day you had to fight against melting into a puddle on the floor like the Wicked Witch of the West?

They were all treating her like the Witch. They cowered and clammed up when she stalked out of the bedroom in the mornings. She didn't mean to get so snippy, but she had never done well in the heat, surely they knew that? It was probably better this way, that they leave her alone till a few days after the long plane ride home, and she'd had a chance to cool off, literally and figuratively.

A bead of sweat slid its way down her forehead and spiraled down an auburn curl into her eye. She smeared the unruly bangs away with the back of her hand. That was another thing she hated about the heat and humidity, the way her hair sprang out from her head in every direction. It didn't matter how long she spent yanking it through the straightener or how much goop she dumped on it, five minutes outside and the curls popped up like mushrooms. She had given up after the second day, no point in purposefully bringing more heat close to her head when it wasn't even working.

She glanced out across the beach, they were laughing and splashing through the shallow surf, running towards the bigger waves with boogie boards held high above their heads. Tan skin glistened up through the salt-water spray.

She turned her arm to examine the new batch of freckles that seemed to have cropped up in her walk from the car to the cafe. Another reason to stay here in the shade. Her only two options in the sun were burn or freckle. Jason teased her sometimes, that if she got enough new freckles maybe they would finally blend together into one big freckle of a tan. She only scowled at him, refusing to admit that she had secretly wondered the same thing as a child. Dammed Irish skin.

She stuck her finger in the glass and slid an ice cube up the side to pop into her mouth. A second one followed to trace a cooling path over her face, neck, collarbones, knees. She didn't care who was watching, and pushed out out of her mind the horrified look that surely would be on her mother's face had she fished ice cubes out of her drink at a restaurant back in Manhattan. She rebelliously cracked the ice cube in her mouth with her teeth. She was on vacation after all. Where you were supposed to relax and let loose. She paid for this and if all the joy she could get out of it was cracking an ice cube with her teeth her mother could suck it!

The Story of the Cracked Pot

One of my friends on MySpace posted the story below as a bulletin. I've heard it before a long time ago, but it's definitely a timely moment to come across it again, as I've been feeling a little like a cracked pot myself lately. Honestly I'm pretty used to these artistic crises that I stumble into every so often, so I know it'll pass, but it sure sucks to be in it, with all the doubts, fears and self flagellation. Stories like this one remind me that I'm allowed to be here and I have a right to express myself with songs, even if they aren't as beautiful and perfect as the ones I hear from the artists I so admire.

A water bearer in India had two large pots, each hung on each end of a pole which he carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, and while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water at the end of the long walk from the stream to the masters house, the cracked pot arrived only half full. For a full two years this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water in his masters house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, perfect to the end for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do. After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream. "I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you." "Why?" asked the bearer. "What are you ashamed of?" "I have been able, for these past two years, to deliver only half my load because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your masters house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all of this work, and you don't get full value from your efforts." The pot said

The water bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said, "As we return to the masters house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path."

Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun warming the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path, and this cheered it some. But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because it had leaked out half its load, and so again the Pot apologized to the bearer for its failure.

The bearer said to the pot, "Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of your path, but not on the other pots side? That's because I have always known about your flaw, and I took advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back from the stream, you've watered them. For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my masters table. Without you being just the way you are, he would not have this beauty to grace his house."

Each of us has our own unique flaws. We re all cracked pots. Don't be afraid of your flaws. Acknowledge them, and you too can be the cause of beauty. Know that in our weakness we find our strength.

So there you have it. Who knows what sort of inspiration might leak out from the cracks and imperfections in my music, what flowers might take root and grow? The trick is to go down to the stream and fill up the pot and start walking back to the house. Because it's real easy to sit at the window and just watch everyone else carrying their pots back and forth, admiring their beauty and perfection, and be too scared to go out on my own.

I do wonder, do I really want to be traveling signer-songwriter like my idols? Or is there some other way that I could satisfy this burning push in my heart? I know it's a hard life, and not all audiences are as grateful and generous as the ones here in town, but surely, surely there must be people who want to hear it, or else why would there be so many who do go out, day after day to sing for a living? Maybe because they can't do anything else.

But here's the other thing that has been nagging at me lately. I don't want to be mediocre. I want to be good. Really good. I want to shine shine shine and light fires in other people's hearts off the fire in my own. But I don't want to be cheezy or sappy or spacy new-agey fluffy about it. I want to be REAL REAL REAL, down to earth, grounded, rooted, burning hot type of inspiration. Yikes. That's a little scary to think about being that much! But I think that's what will need to happen to feel complete...