Okay! Here it is. The beginning of my first writing assignment for school. I have a lot more than this, but I'm just posting the beginning for now. This is based VERY LOOSELY on reality. I think anyone who knows me well enough will figure out which parts draw from reality, and what reality from my life they exhibit. So I won't explain that any further. FEEDBACK IS MORE THAN WELCOME, EVEN IF IT'S MEAN. Parts II, III, IV, etc. will come with time. But... here goes nothin.

*~*Francesca*~*

We’re really here. We really traveled to New York City. It seemed like such an empty dream such a short while ago. But here we are, back stage at CBGB’s in the big apple. I’m not nervous yet. I’m still trying to convince myself it’s real.
I glance over at Ethan. He’s standing in a mess of cords and cables, some leading to amps, some leading to his keyboard, and others draped around his body as he tries to untangle them and figure out where they go. He looks calm and quiet, as he always does, and it’s a reassuring feeling.

I turn to glance at Eddie. He’s bent over his guitar case, rummaging around for picks and his capo, and his bottom lip is quivering. I smile to myself. I’m not concerned. It’s just a side effect from the medication. He’ll be alright.
In the corner of this small backstage holding tank, Pete stands over his drum kit, turning screws and adjusting stands for his cymbals. He’s working quickly. No nonsense.
Nobody seems to notice that I haven’t touched my bass guitar yet. I’m waiting. I have to think about all of this and prepare myself mentally before I can start the physical process. And besides, I have to wait for the men folk to carry my amp in before I do much. It pays to have breasts.

While I wait, I venture to the area just off to the side of the stage. I peek my head out to view the audience. The doors haven’t opened to the public yet, but there are several older gentlemen and ladies bumbling around. Perhaps they’re employees. Then again, perhaps they’re the record execs that are rumored to be appearing tonight. My heart jumps a little with the thought, and then suddenly my surroundings transform to a sight - a memory I haven’t beheld in seven years.

The stage shrinks into a hardwood high school auditorium platform. I’m peeking out from behind a red curtain with holes in it, and in the audience I see no record execs or employees. Instead I see my high school principal, the director of the fine arts division, and several student council members whose names escape me. Behind me is an 18 year old Eddie, complete with silver lip piercing and boasting his newly acquired shadow of a goatee. He is nearly skeletal in build, but wrestling on the varsity team has made him surprisingly strong.

I turn around and see Ethan, also 18, but physically identical to his present day doppelganger. His dark curly hair is still framing the same tan Italian baby face. He stands beside a smaller keyboard, untangling a mass of cords, and looking serene as always. I see that Eddie is looking at him too, and a calm air comes over us both as we realize we’ll be okay. Somewhere in the corner we can hear Marissa, our drummer, fumbling around with equipment and swearing as she drops a rather expensive cymbal on her toe.

Pete swears as he drops a rather expensive cymbal on his toe, and suddenly I’m here again, with Eddie bent over his guitar case, the lip ring gone, and clean-shaven. Ethan holds up an untangled cord and smiles at his accomplishment. I wonder if they remember that audition. Do they remember how nervous we were? Do they remember when we went our separate ways? Do they remember the night only a few months later when everything changed?

*~*Ethan*~*

This place is impressive. It’s really kind of intimidating. The stage is huge and it smells like old dusty wood and the sweat of the rock stars that have performed here. I wonder if Oasis ever performed here. I always liked their music. I am trying to figure out which cord is mine. I think the blue one goes to the PA, but I’m not entirely sure. I think the black one goes to the keyboard.

As I try to sort out this mess of cables and wires, a heavy set man with a cigar appears before me. “Doors open in fifteen. You’re on first. Get your shit together.” He disappears. It’s typical, I think to myself, people in the music business smoking cigars and speaking in abrupt sentences. It’s been my dream to be where I am, playing my music with the people that matter, for people who care to listen. I suppose it’s never been my dream to deal with business execs. I guess it comes with the territory. It’s okay. Eddie’s good for that kind of thing.
I look over to see Eddie bent over his guitar case, rummaging through it to find all of his little odds and ends he’ll need for the show. I can’t tell whether or not he’s nervous. He looks like he might be deep in thought. Maybe he’s freaking out. His bottom lip is twitching. I hope he took his medication.

I wonder of Francesca heard the man with the cigar. She’s standing by the stage entrance. She hasn’t opened her bass case yet. She’s got her memory face on. I know she’s thinking about us. I can see it. Every time she talks about the band and how everything happened, she gets a certain smile that’s different from the rest. It’s a peaceful smile. I wonder which memory she’s playing in her mind.

I ask Pete if he needs help adjusting his drum stuff. He and I both know that I have no earthly idea how to put together a drum kit, and that I was just offering help to be polite. It happens every time. And every time he politely says he has it under control. We smile at each other and I turn back to my cables and wires in a futile effort to understand how this all goes together, how these wires go together, how this band goes together.

I forgot to plug in the keyboard the day we played a very bad rendition of “November Rain” for an audition seven years ago. Looking back, we shouldn’t have been upset that we bombed the audition. After all, it’s hard to do a good “November Rain” when you’ve got little Francesca in there playing oboe of all things. Seriously. When did Guns n Roses ever use an oboe? We were in high school then, before everything happened. Before the great falling out. Before everything made sense. How were we to know that a few months later everything would change?

*~*Eddie*~*

I’m not even gonna lie. I knew we’d get here. I knew this was going to happen, and it is. I’m in a place I’ve dreamed of, but always knew was real, and I always knew I could get here if I found the right way. Ethan and Frannie (don’t tell her I called her that) and I have said from the very beginning that we oughta call up VH1 and tell ‘em we had a great “Behind the Music” story. Our only problem was that we were a band nobody’d ever heard of. Maybe today we can change that. Maybe when we leave tonight we’ll make that call to VH1. Hell, maybe someone from VH1 will be here. We always knew that the strange fate or God or whatever that made all of this happen was too weird not to be discovered.

“We’re ready for you guys.” The stage hand nods at me and the band.

We were right.

This is just a few sentences that may or may not turn into something later.

I picture them in class together. She's right there behind him. Dixon behind Cannon. It's the curse of alphabetical order. I picture them there, in 1935, and although I know colors existed then, I picture them in black and white.


Here are two more of those "little observations in a day" prose poems.

It Might Be Okay

"It's fantastic," she says
She would know
Receding eyelids on her face
Show I might have a chance


Here's another.

Well, Boogers

She does documentaries and she knows about the business
I understood every word and have been taking notes
I admire her and want to know more
And then she says she knows about control
She knows the soundtrack comes last
You can't let studio musicians push you around
That's a pretty great fall

I just posted a few minutes ago, but as I got up from my desk, I was hit with nostalgia and had to write about it. Here's another little observation poem that I'm writing on a whim.


Inventory

Two 20 oz Aquafina bottles
One Aquafina FlavorSplash bottle
One Coors Light can
Two diet pepsi cans
One Amstel Light bottle
One Smirnoff Twisted V Watermelon bottle
All with varying amounts of liquid still left
All scattered upon my desk

I attended a poetry workshop today. Although I haven't written much poetry, we were required to write one in class. The first poem here was one I wrote today during the workshop. We were told to conjure up one of our first memories. The other poems are inspired by the professor's work. He had mentioned that he used to pick a unique observation and write a very short prose poem about it. I loved his poems and entertained the idea myself. The style of poetry we discussed in the workshop dealt directly with a lack of symbolism. All the poets and poems we discussed were modern examples - no hidden meaninigs, and no syllable/rhyming/rhythm restrictions. There was also a push toward longer lines.



Three Bags Full

I'm so excited, I'm almost ready to jump out of my fleece! I don't know who to tell first!
I'm so excited, I'm almost ready to jump out of my fleece! I don't know who to tell first!
I'm so excited, I'm almost ready to jump out of my fleece! I don't know who to tell first!

"Say it loud and clear" mother said
"The last row needs to hear"

I looked at her through the face-hole of a hot and scratchy black sheep costume
Complete with pink satin bow

Curtain time

Standing on a homemade stage that creaked under their nervous pacing
Ladybugs, fireflies
One black sheep

Industrial church lights flickered off
"Stage lights" flickered on

We stood
Not so still
Children muttered
Forgotten lines
Some cried

Rows of proud faces
Leaning in to hear the products of their coaching

My turn

Mother's voice came back to me
The last row needs to hear
Silence drowned the murmors of my fellow young thespians
My tongue drank all my spit
The moment before I spoke
Seemed a day

The last row needs to hear

"I'M SO EXCITED! I'M ALMOST READY TO JUMP OUT OF MY FLEECE! I DON'T KNOW WHO TO TELL FIRST!"
The last words lost to resounding laughter
I was embarrassed
I was proud


Tots

I picked up strawberry instead of regular cream cheese
In quoting Napoleon Dynamite I forgot a fork for my tots
Over toast I realized I'd left my portfolio upstairs
Rachel said I needed to pray to the breakfast Gods


The Illness

Keep away the illness
Stop the moving cars
Freeze the way it is
Allow present trajectory
The end can't be creeping
I don't want to be
Another tragic character


The Grant

He's requesting a grant
From a woman who says "Li-barry"
To form evil empires
He says
We need more supervillains.

That's it for now, folks. PLEASE for the love of your diety of choice, LEAVE FEEDBACK. This is why I have this blog. Do not be afraid to criticize and help me be a better writer. I will be posting more within my preferred genres soon.