The Sun Also Cries

The Sun Also Cries

1

Amy settles in the hammock seat of her swing and clutches the chains firmly and eagerly as she slowly kicks her legs out and begins to pump them in and out… in and out. She watches her legs at work and seems fascinated by her own movements. Though in reality she is simply admiring the clean white look of her pretty tights and the yellow floral print spring dress she wears. As she admires her tights, her brilliant hazel eyes wander down to the shine of her polished white dress shoes. She can almost see something of her reflection in them.
Under the shade of nearby maples and oaks, Amy swings on her swing in her backyard playground. She casually exchanges glances up at the bright, cloudless sky, then down at her shoes and pretty tights and dress again. She wears a glowing sunlit face and a simple smile. If you look hard enough though, into those shining hazel eyes, you will see inner frustration, sadness, and a deep feeling of loneliness. You will see a girl who wants to be happy, wants to have friends, wants to be pretty, feel pretty, and feel welcomed. She is a mentally challenged girl trapped in a thirteen-year-olds’ body. She doesn’t know how to best express the sadness and emptiness.
She looks content because the sun is warm, the sky is clear, and she looks pretty in her new Sunday dress her Grammy gave her. She feels the sun warming her, and she hears the birds singing amidst the gentle, late summer breeze. Amy pumps her legs up and down… in and out. She swings up and down, high and low… easy come… easy go. She smiles but deep inside she is really struggling. She wants this day to really be as bright and warm as it feels against her skin and pretty clothes.
For her, it is hard to put to words what her heart has been trying to say since her mother had gone up to heaven. For her it is hard to express on her face what she truly feels. Her smile only represents a dream, a memory, a few fleeting thoughts of not so long ago. The smile cannot sum up the weight across her shoulders or lift the heaviness from her heart. The smile is only a surface thing and not a deep thing or inner thing.
* * *

If you sing a song or play some music, Amy will hum along with you. She may not know all the words, but it doesn’t matter, she will sing along if she can. Amy may tell you a happy story if you let her. Amy will show you how well she can count. She may count only with her fingers and count fairly slowly, but she will count. If you give Amy something to read, she will sit beside you and sound out the words and syllables and try her hardest not to slur, stutter, or mumble or mutter.
If you praise her or offer her a compliment, she will smile and give her most heartfelt thanks. If you tickle her, she will laugh and giggle and squirm against your touch. If you run, she will chase. If you hide, she will seek. If you tag, she will tag back. If you play, she will shine. If you hurt, she will cry… if you are hurt, she will want to heal.
* * *

Amy is the kind of girl who wears her heart upon her sleeve. She wants to be sincere. She wants you to know she has nothing to hide or be ashamed of. She wants you to know she is willing to risk getting hurt and getting taken advantage of. She wants you to know she speaks only the truth and only from the heart. She wants you to know she will not hide from herself.
With her heart on her sleeve, she is a sensitive one. She feels more fully when she is insulted, loved, abused, hurt, teased, welcomed, complimented, and resented. She shows her emotions with her smiles, her sighs, her giggles, and her tearful eyes. Yet today as she sits in her swing and pumps her legs up and down and swings high and low, back and forth… gently as the wind blows, the heart she often wears on her sleeve now appears to have retreated deep into some hidden place all locked up and kept even from her own reach. The heart has left only a simple girl’s frustrated smile upon her face and fleeting memories and thoughts through her mind.
She cannot put to words the pain of real loss. She cannot bring herself to feel the depth of grief. She might be afraid that her heart will be forever broken now that her mother is gone. She is afraid that there will be no more sunny days like these. Amy fears there will be no more bedtime stories with crumbly cookies in bed. Maybe there won’t be anymore songs to sing or stories to share? Maybe there will be no happy birthday parties or special “friendship” days anymore? Is it possible that the bullies at school will now get nastier too now that Mommy is gone? Is it possible that Daddy will hate her even more for being “special”? When he calls her that, it feels shameful, wrong, spiteful, and dark. When he calls her “special”, her father is really calling her “retarded” and saying so in her face where she can see the disgust across his face.
Is it denial or fear that keeps Amy’s smile upon her face? Is it fear of overwhelming pain and sorrow? Is it denial? Is she trying to fool herself into thinking her mother isn’t really in some other place? Or is the smile a sign of courage or bravery on her part? Is the smile a willingness to carry on despite the obstacles and conflicting emotions?
* * *

2

Amy perks up as she hears the back kitchen door open. Her Grammy walks out and smiles from the porch and steps out into the sunshine. From inside the kitchen are the aromas of baked cookies and brownies. Somehow the scents and aromas drift across the backyard to where Amy swings slowly and thoughtfully back and forth… up and down… little high, little low.
Grammy walks across the yard to meet Amy on her swing with knowing glances and nods. She doesn’t need words to know how her granddaughter feels. She only needs the eyes God gave her and the heart to love Amy no matter her appearances or expressions. She knows it’s not always the outside that matters as much as the inside. She also knows that yes, time can heal all wounds- but time is a relative thing. Not everyone sees the passage of time the same way.
This woman also know that it takes more than cookies and brownies baked fresh to lift a girl’s heart from the darkness of a loved one’s death. This woman knows better than to take Amy’s silence and frustrations lightly or condescendingly. Grammy does not patronize or pay Amy lip service.
Grammy knows that although it’s been four months since her daughter’s passing and although that passing was peaceful among those that loved and cared for her, a passing is still a passing and some goodbyes take a much longer time for them to become hellos again. She can respect that. She can respect the patience that is needed. She values time and has grown used to the stream of seasons, days, weeks, months, and seemingly endless years. Long goodbyes and seldom seen hellos are a part of the cycle of life. Death is a part of the cycle of life too, but can she convince or educate Amy of this? Should she even try?
Grammy smiles and sweeps her granddaughter in her arms and cradles her soft face in her hands and strokes her chin thoughtfully. She can read the deep sadness and conflicting thoughts and emotions deep inside Amy’s eyes. The simple smile looks more truthfully labored and a little more forced now- under Grammy’s more experienced eyes.
Amy feels her grandmother’s fingers combing through her long curls of crimped strawberry blonde hair. She sinks her face deep in her Grammy’s hands, maybe now feeling the full brunt of all that has been pent up inside. Maybe all she needed was the feel of a different kind of warmth across her face? Maybe all she needed was to lay her trust in a different pair of eyes than her father’s?
“Amy hurts,” she whimpers to her grandmother. “I hurts so bad.”
“I know Jelly Bean,” Grammy soothes. “I know all about the hurts.”
Amy rubs her cheek within her grandmother’s cupped hands. She bears the appearance of a young girl trapped in a teenager’s body. She is weeping in her grandmother’s hands. She is snuggling within the folds of her grandmother’s arms. She is not the young child we see or think she is. She is not quite the teenager we see or expect either. She is just a girl who knows little of who she is, where she belongs, and how she is labeled. She is just a girl who tries to understand the world she must share with everyone else. She is just a girl trying to cope with the loss of a mother she shared with that world. Amy is wondering if maybe her mother was stolen from her. Does it make sense for her to share someone so precious and then never see her ever again? Was sharing a bad thing?
Arms cradle Amy and set her upon a welcoming lap. Settling there beside the swing, on the lush carpet of grass, under the shade of the maples and oaks, under a cloudless, late summer sky… they settle and sit upon their knees and embrace.
Grammy wishes to soak in all the sadness Amy feels. Grammy wishes to have all the answers and wishes she could accomplish the impossible. There are forces beyond their combined control though. There are limitations. None of these things keep her from trying however. She wouldn’t be a grandmother if she didn’t at least try.
“Amy?” Grammy whispers in her granddaughter’s ear.
Amy looks up with tears streaking down her cheeks.
“Maybe I can tell you a little story… something to make the hurts go away, if for a little while,” Grammy suggested.
“Is it story time? It’s summer and there’s no school Grammy,” Amy softly replied. “Do I still get story time? And it’s not bedtime or Mom-
“‘Mommy time’… I know,” Grammy nodded. “It’s okay… right now it’s Grammy and Amy time. Right now it’s our time and Grammy feels like spending our time telling you a story.”
Amy looked up and eyed her grandmother intently and wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes with the backs of her hands. In her world, stories were reserved for school, bedtime, and “Mommy Time”. “Mommy Time” was any sort of time and could occur whenever Mommy and Amy happened to be together. Sometimes they’d play a game, or sing together, or do special things only a Mommy and her Amy can do. Yes, they would also tell stories as well.
Not too many people read to her these days. Not too many people share their time with Amy now that Mommy is gone. All the fun times she had growing up seem to have grown fewer in number.
Grammy smiles and holds Amy in her arms and lets her sway to and fro, side to side, left to right and back again… like the swing or the pendulum of the grandfather clock in the living room. She waits until Amy finds the comfort of a familiar rhythm and the feel of familiar arms around her.
* * *

3

“Once upon a time, a little girl looked up at the moonlit sky and stared up at all the stars. She was a sad little girl, because she thought she had lost the sun. She didn’t know where it had gone to,” Grammy began.
“Was the little girl sad with hurts like me?” Amy asked, nestling in her Grammy’s arms, resting her head against her chest.
“This girl was so sad- just like you. This girl was so sad that all she could do was cry and look up at all the stars. She looked up at the moon and hated it. She thought the moon had stolen her sun and hid it far away among all the tiny, sparkly stars so far out of reach,” Grammy continued. “For this little girl, the sun was just like your Mommy in heaven, so she was very sad. She loved the sun because it helped make the flowers grow and made everything warm and bright and cheerful.”
“Where did the sun go?” Amy asked.
“Well this little girl asked that very same important question. She asked it over and over and over again. She really wanted to know where the sun went, but no-one knew how to answer the little girl’s question,” Grammy replied. “So the girl cried for a very long time and grew very sleepy and tired.”
“She went to sleep?” Amy gently interrupted.
“Yes she did, because sometimes when you feel very sad inside, you can also feel very sleepy and tired. So this little girl curled up under her favorite tree under the stars and slept for a very long time.”
“Did she wake up?”
“Yes she did; and do you know what helped her wake up?” Grammy asked with a smile.
“Was it the bright shiny sun?”
“Yes it was. And do you know why the sun was there all of a sudden?”
Amy shook her head and eyed her grandmother curiously.
“The sun shared a little secret with the sad little girl. The sun explained that sometimes even the brightest things and happiest, most cheerful things can feel sad and sleepy… sometimes the sun needs to cry too. And when the crying stops, the sun will rise again and make things warm and bright again.”
Grammy finished her story and hugged Amy snuggly. The story wasn’t by any means her best story. It had a beginning, middle, and an ending. Looking down at Amy and peering through her eyes, it was obvious that Amy didn’t judge the story critically. Amy knew her Grammy somehow managed to say all that needed to be said. Just as Amy couldn’t put to words her feelings, Grammy couldn’t force a story to be more or less than what it was. As Grammy said, “the sun needs to cry too and when the crying stops, the sun will rise again,” Amy understood. If the sun can cry, so can she. The sun still always seems to rise in the end… and so will she.

The End

(c) 2005 David Conlin McLeod

Fame... How Elusive Is It?

It is a circular argument that I have to deal with as a published author dealing with On-Demand Publishing at the scale I am working with. The companies I am working with produce my books one at a time to fill orders that may come to them. Their printing costs are presumably, reduced, yet still high beacuse they produce trade paperbacks of high quality. The circular argument is this...

Each book costs anywhere from $16.85 - $33.48 suggested retail price. My royalties range anywhere from .34 cents to $5.14. I would see more royalties if I could sell more books... I could sell more books if the price of the books was lower and each book was more affordable. At best I could forego recieving any royalties and knock off maybe $2.00 - $5.00 off the retail price of the books. But the books would remain close to $20.00 a pop.

I feel cheated and I feel like I am ripping off the consumers and readers. Even if my novels and stories represent my utmost best work possible, I am asking my fans to shell out as much as a Harry Potter 1st Edition Hardcover. I am never going to see or attain royalties at this rate and God knows it will be a long time before I develop a fan base. Not that I am in any kind of real hurry... but it would be nice to see some kind of tangiable return on my investments and creativity.

Just as a side note, it's not that I am considered an unknown author so much... word is getting around... it's just that my work is unknown. It's like sure, Dave is an author and he's published too, we just can't afford any of his books so we don't know if he's even any good at what he writes.

I think at some point I will need to consider a bigger publishing company.

A Short Story I Wrote Entitled, "Spirit"

Spirit

(c) David Conlin McLeod 2005 All Rights Reserved

Amy sat in her chair and looked down at her white gymnast slippers as her coach tallied up her scores from the judges’ scoreboard. She was also admiring her shimmery blue leotard too and discreetly neatening it around her legs to hide the edges of the special briefs she had to wear underneath.
Behind her team’s row of chairs were the bleachers where all the gymnasts’ families and friends were watching the meet with their excited smiles and flashing cameras and camcorders. Coach Wysocki was hoping Amy had earned herself a high enough all-around score for a medal. Though Amy couldn’t see or wasn’t paying too much attention to anything but her pretty slippers and shiny, shimmery leotard, her parents were hoping and praying for a medal as well.
Amy had been training in gymnastics for a few years now and taking ballet classes for almost as long. These classes were expensive as were her leotards, tights, and warm-ups suits and accessories. There were other costs too, like travel expenses between meets and workouts, team application fees, tournament fees, and hotel accommodation expenses as well. A lot had been invested in seeing Amy win either a bronze, silver, or gold medal. Amy’s parents right here and right now were hoping to see some of their investments pay off.
Even though Amy’s scores needed to be adjusted for the level of difficulty for her routines and for her handicap, Coach Wysocki seemed somewhat pleased and somewhat disappointed as well. Her scores were higher than they’ve ever been, but were they high enough to medal?
Coach Wysocki glanced about the gym and eyed the other teams and their coaches carefully for some sign or clue as to how well or how poorly her rival teams had done. Some coaches were smiling, some seemed emotionless and stern. Some coaches glanced back at her and simply turned away to focus more on their gymnasts. Wysocki then glanced back at her team. Many of her girls were smiling, happy, bright and cheerful. Most were sitting in their chairs obediently, getting assistance from aids and volunteers who helped them slip on their warm-up suits for the award presentation, some were neatening their hair buns or ponytails, while others, like Amy simply sat and folded their hands upon their laps and admired their pretty slippers and leotard.
The gymnasts didn’t seem to care the slightest about the flashing numbers scrolling up and down the scoreboard on the wall. Most didn’t know what any of those numbers meant. Some girls didn’t even know how to get themselves properly dressed. Amy was one of those girls who needed the most help as she was required to wear a diaper and rubber panty under her leotard and had to be more closely supervised between events. Amy liked to explore and wander about the gym.
Tabulating the scores, Wysocki noted that Amy had earned an 8.75 on her balance beam routine, a 7.50 on her rhythmic gymnastics routine, a 9.10 on her floor exercise routine, and a 9.50 on her vault. Her teammates didn’t perform as well as Amy, but did Amy perform better than the other competing gymnasts? Was Amy’s scores going to be high enough for Coach Wysocki to see her name beside Amy’s on the big scoreboard? Any medal any of this team earned was going to reflect very nicely on Coach Wysocki’s program and make a nice addition to her resume and gym’s reputation. Having people look upon her as a coach known to get results, known for helping girls win medals was priceless and profitable. Every would-be gymnast and their parents were lured by the glint of gold, silver, or bronze. Knowing that a coach could deliver was a huge incentive.
Amy smiled and rubbed her leotard’s sleeves nice and smoothly, enjoying the feel of the sleek spandex against her skin. She seemed mesmerized by how shiny and bright her blue leotard looked under the bright gym lights overhead. Hearing the applause and cheering from the crowds around her as the announcers asked for everyone’s attention, Amy looked up and eyed the bleachers over her shoulder. There in the front was her Mommy and Daddy with camera and score sheet at the ready. Amy brightened and waved to them eagerly.
“Come on Amy, let’s get your warm-ups on for awards presentation,” a volunteer spoke up, tapping Amy gently on the shoulder.
“But I like my leotard! I like shimmery blue!” Amy protested, pouting and clinging to the front of her leotard tightly across her chest. “It’s super pretty and I like it lots!”
“Amy stop being a little girl. You’re thirteen-years’-old, don’t be a baby. Now come on and help be slip on your warm-up pants,” the volunteer firmly scolded.
Amy crossed her arms across her chest and shook her head firmly only to have the volunteer slide the legs of her warm-up pants on her and pull up the waistband around her hips with a lift of her butt and a firm tug. Amy yelped as she was lifted from her chair and made to stand as another volunteer held her from behind and lifted her arms up over her head. Her warm-up jacket was put on her and zipped up even as she tried to wrestle free from the volunteers’ grips. She hated seeing the shimmery blue leotard hiding under a plain white nylon sweat suit. She didn’t even care if her name was embroidered on the jacket in bright blue glittery letters. She liked her leotard best.
“Leave me alone, you guys are being mean!” Amy cried.
The coach and volunteers shuffled and prodded the team to stand at their place on the gym floor as the announcer’s voice boomed from overhead speakers to announce each team’s name. Amy heard her team’s name, “East River Tumblers” and perked up with an instant smile. Suddenly she remembered what was going to happen next. They would all receive medals and ribbons and the whole gym would clap and cheer and all the gymnasts would live happily ever after.
Amy stood between her friends Karen and Lisa and smiled proudly as they formed a line with the rest of their team. Looking all around herself, Amy instantly remembered the fun she had dancing with her ribbons, prancing tip-toe on the balance beam, hopping over the vault, doing fancy somersaults and dance moves, and waving to all the people cheering in the stands. It had been a fun day full of dancing and gymnastics- the two things she loved best in the whole wide world.
Now it was time for best part, the giving out of pretty ribbons and shiny medals. At this meet, Amy knew that everyone got something special. Everyone got a special award or prize. Looking at the table behind the judges, Amy could see all the shiny gold, silver, and bronze medals and all the pretty colored ribbons too. Of all the colors she saw, she liked the pink and purple prize ribbons best.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the highest score and gold medal for the floor exercise for twelve to fourteen-year-olds goes to Amy Cavanaugh of East River Tumblers!” an announcer cheerfully exclaimed.
Amy’s heart jumped in her chest. That was her name! An escort quickly walked up to Amy and grabbed her arm gently to prod her towards the awards podium. Amy stepped up to the top podium and stood and waved to her parents happily. She won an award!
The judge smiled pleasantly at Amy and cupped her chin in her hand as she guided the medal around her neck and patted her on the shoulder.
“You did a very good job today! We are all very proud of you!” beamed the judge just as the silver medalist was announced for the floor exercise routine.
Amy admired the bright gold medal lying across her chest with the emblems and bright reflective shiny surface. She had never won anything that was ever this beautiful before or so bright.
As soon as all the remaining medals and ribbons had been handed out and all the girls returned to their places, the announcer began to call names and teams out for the awarding of the next round of awards for the balance beam. Amy listened intently, but conjured up daydream memories of her routine. Skimming the surface of the beam just on the tips of her toes she had done a few arabesques, a stag leap, and a very difficult cartwheel. For her, cartwheels were very hard to do especially on the balance beam without help.
Amy heard the happy and cheerful announcer call out, “And in fifth place on her team with a very good score of 8.75, is Amy Cavanaugh of East River Tumblers!”
Another escort took her hand and prodded her to the judges table where a man in a suit waited to pin a pink 5th place ribbon on her warm-up jacket, right under her embroidered name. Amy smiled and thanked the judge as she looked down at the bright pink ribbon.
“Woo-hoo! I got a pink one!” Amy smiled, hopping and skipping back to her team’s place.
Of all her awards so far, she liked this 5th place ribbon the best because pink was her favorite color of all. Eyeing her parents though, Amy could see a frown on her father’s face. Daddy wasn’t looking so pleased about her winning a fifth place ribbon. Maybe he didn’t like pink so much as he seemed to love gold? Mommy however was very happy and was quick to take several pictures of her with the camera.
Amy stood patiently as each team approached the awards table to receive their ribbons and medals. From all over the state these teams had come together to compete for these prizes and qualify for the Southern Connecticut competition. The Southern Connecticut meet was the most important one of the year and you couldn’t compete in that unless you earned a medal in at least one event.
Amy however didn’t seem to know or care so much about where or when her next competition was. She just loved ballet and gymnastics and worked very hard at doing her best and learning new skills and routines. She just liked to make Coach Wysocki happy and make her parents proud of her, even her grumpy old Daddy. She did like her shiny gold medal and liked seeing the huge grin on her coach’s face and the gleam in her eyes, but all in all she wished she had another pink or maybe one of the shiny green ribbons instead.
“Why would you want one of those green ribbons? Those are for seventh place! Wouldn’t you rather have a gold medal for first place?” asked a volunteer noting Amy’s interest in the new ribbon her friend Lisa now wore on her chest for her score on the rhythmic gymnastics routine.
“I like the colors!” Amy beamed. “Gold isn’t as pretty as pink or shiny green.”
“I don’t get you Amy, you won a gold medal and a ribbon for your routines… you’re going to compete in the Southern Connecticut meet, and all you care about is the pretty colors on those stupid ribbons?” Coach Wysocki chimed in.
Amy shrugged and looked away. She knew what she liked and wasn’t going to listen to anyone else trying to change her mind.
“And that concludes the Nutmeg Regional Special Olympics Gymnastics Qualifier!” announced the event co-coordinator from his podium. “Congratulations to all our talented gymnasts and remember, at Special Olympics, everyone’s a winner!”
Amy smiled and cheered and clapped her hands loudly with all her friends and teammates. She won three shiny ribbons- one pink, one white, and one blue. She also won her first every medal in all her years of gymnastics! Now as everyone shook hands and hugged and smiled and giggled happily, Amy’s coach walked off somewhat disgustedly. She knew her team could not qualify for the State Summer Olympics at Southern Connecticut State University. One girl with one medal wasn’t enough for her to send a team or earn her additional recognition. The way she saw it, her class enrollment now would take a dip. People wouldn’t want to send their girls to learn gymnastics from a coach you only came back with a team adorned with fifth, sixth, and seventh place ribbons.
Mr. Cavanaugh had a few choice words to say to Coach Wysocki and immediately pulled her aside by the gymnasium and locker room exits. Mrs. Cavanaugh however rushed to celebrate her daughter’s incredible efforts and join in her happiness, offering to sweep her up in her arms and hug her snuggly.
“I did my best Mommy and I had lots of fun and wore my shiny leotard and got ribbons!” Amy exclaimed, pointing proudly to her pink 5th place, her white 6th place, and blue 4th place ribbons. She beamed even brighter when her mother kissed her forehead and admired her gold medal.
As they walked arm in arm towards the locker room however, Amy immediately caught the sight of a young gymnast crying. The girl was sobbing into her hands and crying, hiding her face from her disappointed parents, who didn’t seem impressed with her ribbons as she was. The girl wore her ribbons proudly across the front of her bright green leotard. Her father and mother however were looking down upon her with stern expressions and they were scolding her.
“Mommy, that’s not right. She’s a good gymnast!” Amy whispered firmly in her mother’s ear. “I want to help.”
Amy pulled her mother’s arm and led her towards the scene that had drawn Amy’s attention away from the locker room doors. The pretty, but saddened gymnast was upset and ashamed. She sobbed and wailed as her father and mother continued to scold and say mean things that Amy herself felt chilled from. Amy yelped when she thought she heard this girl’s father and mother call this pretty girl “stupid”.
Amy reached around her neck and lifted the gold medal she had earned and held it out to this gymnast.
“I don’t want this medal. I want you to have it because you are a good gymnast! It will make your Mommy and Daddy smile so they won’t say mean things,” Amy announced, handing her medal to the saddened girl.
The younger girl cupped the medal in her hands with widened eyes. Like Amy, she had never won a medal in all her life, let alone pretty ribbons. This had been her first competition ever with the Special Olympics. She was just happy to be here and just happy to have had the chance to dress in a leotard and do gymnastics- when so many told her she had no right to even dream of it.
“Thank you so much, you are so nice!” the young gymnast softly cried, rubbing tears from her soaked eyes.
“You are a good gymnast and I hope to see you again so we can be friends and do gymnastics together,” Amy replied, hugging her new friend warmly. “And we can be friends now.”
Amy and her friend hugged, while Amy’s mother smiled even more proudly at what her daughter had done. The young gymnast’s parents however huffed and puffed and looked down at the medal with mild satisfaction, muttering a half-hearted thanks to Amy.
Before Amy and her friend parted though and headed for the locker room to change clothes, they quickly exchanged “friendship” card from their gym bags which listed the name of their gym and how they could become pen-pals. Amy and her new friend, Rachel, walked hand-in-hand to the lockers, leaving their parents to ponder what they had done.

* * *

Later at the dinner table, Beverly Cavanaugh sat beside her daughter and smiled proudly at her.
“That was a very nice thing that you had done for that girl Amy. I am very proud of you.”
“That’s all that matters Mommy. She was a good gymnast and I did my best. She wanted that medal and I like my Mommy to be proud,” Amy replied.

"Change of Seasons"

I recently unearthed a collection of poems and lyrics and prose I had put together way back when. Mostly it was stuff I had written while in West Hartford from '97-'01. Most of the lyrics are angst filled depictions of heartbreak. I read them earlier today and felt immediately transported to that time when I was going through all kinds of rejections from female friends and so on. And I recalled how depressed I was over other things like how my job sucked at the time and how I had no real set goals or directions in life and how my job was meaningless to me and how jealous I was that everyone around me seemed to have everything all worked out in their heads and they never went without.

The problem I found with the work I just discovered is that not only is it dated, but it's not very creative to me. I wrote this stuff, but I can see clearly that this was not my best work or even close. It was all free form prose and it seemed more like I was ranting and pouring out verbal vomit... best way to describe. And to think that I was considering publishing this collection. I suppose if someone wanted to delve into the essence of some 20-something's angst, you can get that and see that my angst is no different than a teenager's angst.

In my perspective now as a 30 year old, angst is a tired subject to me... kind of. I write horror novels now, but some of my characters still cling to their angst and bitter sorrows and heartaches... it is who they are. The characters that have this angst that I had not so many years ago want the same things I wanted, to weather those storms and get over them. They want to grow up and mature and find the things they deserve.

When I read or listen to music and come across something reeking of angst I kind of cringe. It seems like the whole music industry for a while was built on angst and over emotional, insubstantial issues. Millions of dollars in records sold based on the emotional vulnerabilities of teens. The music industry seems to love to capitalize on the "emotional trends" of teens. Angst seems to be the hottest new trend... next to white kids thinking their in the ghetto Hip-Hop/Gangster Rap culture....

Books and literature so far hasn't really delved into expoiting angst so much. At least if it has, I haven't been exposed to too much of it. I have seen some coming of age stories and young adult novels or books... which seems to play with angst here and there... but in the context of stories written for teens and young adults, it is sorta exceptable so long as the subject of angst isn't the only subject. Healing I think has to follow up angst. Stories without some uplifting message or some form of resolution or positve hope message kinda leave me feeling down and makes me always wonder about the author's motive.

Well before I get off on some wild tangent again from poetry collections to angst, I'll bid you all a fair evening. If I do publish this collection of mine, it will only be after I edit the hell out of it and refine my thoughts a bit. The poems make a nice time capsule but they do not reflect my current moods and feelings and thoughts much.