And I've done it again!

Okay, this is the website I'll stay at: Wordpress won the battle.

http://srhknight.wordpress.com/

I've moved!

My new site... http://srhknight.tumblr.com/

May She Count the Hours. (my attempt at writing, just for fun :)

She walked through the doorway with the keys in her fist, closed her eyes, and inhaled a deep breath. Calm yourself. Breathe. The clock against the wall  ticked away, tiredly. It had been a long day, a very long day, and oh was it good to be home. She reached down and slid her hand along her calve into the side of one black boot and slipped it off, then the other. They clattered as she kicked them aside. Her feet ached from the walking, but at least they had air again. Shit, what a day. A yielding pillow on the couch greeted her as she fell forward, pushed her face into it, and screamed. Her eyes watered slightly as her body crumpled beneath her against the cushions.

She sucked in another breath and felt air fill her lungs. Her forehead pressed further into the embroidered pillow from her body weight. Maybe if she tried hard enough, the embroidered image would engrave itself onto her face. She rolled to her side. God was she hungry. Her reflection in the black television screen was the most pathetic image. Curly blonde hair that stuck to her forehead, wet with tears. Her mascara was smeared. She closed her eyes. She moved her hand up to hold it against her chest in order to feel its rise and fall.

May she count the hours, may she count the time spent pursuing this pointless dream.  Her hand felt cold against the flesh of her chest.  The time wasted, thrown into the bin to be carried away by the next garbage truck. They came every Tuesday-- at least the time hadn’t festered. Silence pervaded, save for the sounds of her breathing and some footsteps on the floor above.

The scratching of metal on metal brought her to open her eyes. Bright light spread across the room as he opened the door. She squinted.

“Hello.”

“Hey,” she said, her face expressionless and her eyes red. She was still in the fetal position.

“What’s up?” His brow furrowed from concern. She felt his green eyes boring into her. He was still holding his black leather briefcase as he stood in the doorway.

She inhaled again. Her gulp of air sounded raspy. “Oh, nothing really.”

Why did he have to have such a penetrating gaze? She stared at him and felt herself tense as she tried to hold back her tears.

“Anna?”

“Oh God, Parker, I’m so over life.” The dam she had built burst as she pushed herself to sit up. Dammit. She hated it when she cried.

He set his briefcase next to the door before he shut it. He didn’t say anything. He simply strode across the room and put his arms gingerly around her. She pressed herself into him and felt his warm breath disturb the wispy hairs above the nape of her neck. He smelled of Old Spice. Her body shook slightly as she tried to recompose herself. She felt safe though, being held.

“Everything will be okay.” His voice seemed to reverberate throughout her body. The shoulder of his suit was soft.

Flashes of the woman squeezed their way into her mind. The woman had stared at the checkered floor and wrung her frail hands.  “Why couldn’t you save her?” she asked.

“I tried,” said Anna. “There wasn’t anything more we could do.”

“What did you say?” She felt his body pull away from her. His hands settled on her hips as he faced her. Questioning concern spread across his face. She hated it when he looked concerned. She hated it when she felt this helpless.

“I tried,” She gasped. Tears ran down her cheeks as the lump reformed in her throat. The little girl with the freckles spread across her nose stared at her from over his shoulder. She forced herself to look away. Why was this so bad? Deaths happen. She was a doctor, that’s how it was. Sometimes there was nothing you could do, and you move on. But this one, this one was bad. Time of death: 12:15 pm. She was her youngest patient. Five years old. Why couldn’t she figure out what was wrong with her? Despite the years of schooling, she couldn’t figure it out.

“Anna, I’m sure you don’t want to talk about it, but I’m here for you if you need it.” His voice was soothing. He tightened his grip on her hips and continued to watch her.  She nodded.

“I know.” The words came out watery, like cold soup. Her eyes traveled upward from the spot on the hardwood floor she had chosen to focus on, next to his knee. The girl was still there. Her pale-pink lips pulled back slightly into a half-smile. Her golden eyes danced. Anna stared, stone-faced, the tears slowly evaporating to leave a slight salty crust. Finally, the girl turned and walked away to disappear into the hallway, towards the bedroom. Parker turned his head to follow her gaze, his hands still upon her. He felt stable. He felt real.

“What are you looking at?” At least she wasn’t afraid. Then he would be truly concerned, if she was afraid. The fear would have shown in her expression. She didn’t say anything. She had wanted to accomplish something, to heal, to fix things, to fix people. She had wanted to make an impact, to change something. She had wanted to go to Africa, to work with AIDS, but instead she stayed. She accepted the job at the hospital thinking it would be easier for Parker, easier for him to keep his firm and to adjust to her new work schedule.

May she count the hours that she spent walking the floors of the hospital. May she count the days she wore the white coat with her name embroidered on it: Dr. Sorin. She invested her life into that position, into those people, but she had failed.

He still looked concerned. Stop it.

“I’ll get you a cup of tea. Honey chamomile. Is that okay?” He pushed his hands against the corner of the couch and rose from his knees. They must be sore from sitting in that position for so long. The warmth of his hands lingered. Her neck crackled slightly as she looked up at the clock. It had only been three minutes, but it had felt like so much longer. Time was going by so slowly today.

Where had the girl gone? She blinked.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?” His deep voice echoed from the kitchen. The clink of a coffee mug hitting the granite countertop resounded across the vaulted ceiling. She had picked those out herself, those countertops. The color looked so nice set against the dark cherry-wood cabinets.

“Today was just… “ Her voice still sounded like she was gargling. She cleared her throat, it felt sore. “Gross, that’s all.” There were a few beeps and the microwave sighed. She didn’t want to talk about it, recounting it made it real. Made the death real, made the mother with the fragile looking hands real, made the pain real. The mother. She had brown, thick hair like the daughter. The daughter had had her mouth. Should she call her? What would that do, there’s no point, she had done all she could. “I’ll be fine, really.”

The timer went off to say that the tea was done. She heard the slam of the microwave door. A few seconds later he appeared in the kitchen doorway. She watched his green eyes intently. He looked her up and down as he brought the mug over to her. He was analyzing her. He was good at that, analyzing people. He was a lawyer after all; he knew how to manipulate people to get them to say what he wanted. But she knew him, and she recognized what he was doing.

“Alright, are you sure?” No, I don't think so. She realized she was still holding her keys in a tight fist and she tossed them toward the low table a few feet away. They soared through the air with an ugly jingling sound and landed with a thud.
 His eyes were still searching as he carefully handed her the mug. It was hot to the touch. She could still feel. The girl couldn’t.

“Yes,” she said firmly. She was such a good actress when she needed to be. 

Bleh

I sat and I ate and I ate and I sat and I tried to write my essay. And it rained. Then I got distracted and went on Facebook and wrote right here. Snack? Popcorn with cheddar cheese shredded on top. Yes. Ugh, can't think of anything... Switch it up. Do some Ochem problem sets. Give the right side of your brain a rest.
Oh, rainy days.
 

Glory in Suffering.

I wielded my umbrella like a weapon today, but I was definitely on the losing side. "I'LL FIND JOY IN MY SUFFERINGS!" we yelled, splashing through the deep puddles and streams that littered Sproul Plaza. Everybody around us, with their green, black, polka-dotted umbrellas and rain boots were probably staring at us, but we didn't sense them. They were melancholy in this terrible weather, we were not. My cheeks and chin stung from the freezing wind. The rain came in slanting sheets, pulling my brilliantly red umbrella in every direction I didn't want it to go. Our ridiculous laughter hung through the wet air.
We separated. I walked toward Tolman, toward the apartment. My feet made little impact upon the flowing rivers engulfing the concrete. As I rounded the corner of the large, bulging concrete of the Psych building, a scene of red and black vehicles and flashing lights greeted me. I stared, wide eyed. Keep moving, don't stop and stare. The black boots on her feet protruded beneath the brown jacket they had lain over her to keep out the rain and wind. There was a thick, dark branch laying across the sidewalk and I had to gingerly step over it as I passed. Her muffled voice came from beneath the jacket. The man leaning over her had his hand placed gingerly on her side in a gesture of comfort. The muscles of my neck strained as I glanced back repeatedly. No blood. She must be okay. No ambulance, another good sign. I minded my own business and my legs continued to carry me to the stop light, though I continued to glance over my shoulder. I was consumed by the innate human need to know what was going on. I wanted the story. I pushed my way up Arch Street as the sound of sirens filled my ears and my wet pants stuck to my calves.
I was returning home from bible study. We studied Romans 5, a few lines of which state, "we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; ⁴ perseverance, character; and character, hope. ⁵ And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us." My friend and I suffered the terrible weather with joy, yet that poor woman was hit by a wayward tree branch. I wonder if she found glory in that. I have to say, I smiled inwardly because so many people at least stopped to help her, and her voice had sounded slightly cheerful. God was watching. There is hope in humanity and hope does not put us to shame.
The pale, jade green of the legs of my pants were a dark shade of forest by the time I fell breathlessly into the door of my apartment. My shoes felt like sponges- disgusting, smelly sponges. I gave up avoiding puddles about five minutes into the downpour. My roommate had said, "You look... tired," as I passed her on the balcony on my way to the door. Ha, thanks.

Again, please ignore the videos and just pay attention to the music. (Okay watch the carrot flowers one because it's pretty funny :)

Red Umbrella by Forest Sun <- link because I couldn't find a good video version on Youtube.

A Mellifluous Cacophony

The string quivers, letting out a soft, deep note. My fingers caress the bridge, I close my eyes as I sense the vibrations of the horse-hairs of the bow. They run along the metallic strand, sending delicious sounds into the dense melodic atmosphere. Another violinist and I stand side by side; our two instruments send out intertwining reverberations, one high, one low, then vice versa. I play deep, long lasting notes while the guitars, basses, voices, and piano envelope my eardrums.
The lead belts out the chorus while other voices harmoniously join him, "Come thou fount of... every blessing... tune my heart to sing thy grace..."

The band generally plays more contemporary songs, but I absolutely adore the classics. "Before the Throne of God Above" is gorgeous, same with "Amazing Grace," and there's another but I can't place the name of it. I closed my eyes and just felt the music. I played the notes that I felt were right, and everybody seemed impressed. I could have sworn I heard the notes before I played them (or it could have been the piano). When playing with no guide, I really began to appreciate the sound of the violin and my music definitely had more soul.  I've always adhered to sheet music, and to say the least, when I was given the opportunity to just play I was intimidated. But, now that I've experienced it, with a full band, simply playing really is the best form of music.  Nothing else inhabits your abdominal and chest cavities the way a soulful note does, like a warm liquid filling an empty mug. I recommend you try it sometime.

On a side note, it didn't rain this morning after all. It hailed a little, but I was in lecture and only heard of the aftermath from a friend who had suffered through it. Sometimes it's good to hear you've missed something.

In a bout of scholarly fervor this afternoon, I began the major declaration process. I have yet to fill out paperwork and speak with an advisor, but I did complete the online application. I will soon be able to officially name myself a Molecular and Cell Biology major with an emphasis in Immunology. Then, once I speak with an English department advisor, I can tack on an English Minor. I smiled today when I began looking at upper-div classes: genetics lab, microbiology lab, immunology lab, pathogenesis of infectious diseases, differentiation of T lymphocytes, the genetics of cancer, biochemistry. So many amazing things. The legitimacy has begun, no more prereqs for me. One more semester and one more summer, then I'm home free to study what I came here for.

Oh Yes I Did.

Okay, in a spur of the moment crazy attack, I added my blog link to my Facebook page. We'll see what happens. Maybe nothing? I decided to remain under the radar, so I removed the notification on my wall that notified humanity I had changed my website. I also haven't told a soul that the link is up. Hopefully this won't be too tumultuous...

Also, here's a mushy moment as a carry-over from V-Day, but really sweet nonetheless:

Pg 286 Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

"…she asked, 'Why do you love him?'

                Olanna looked up. Her mind was a blank board. 'Why do I love him?'

                Edna raised her eyebrows, mouthing but not singing Billie Holiday’s words.

                'I don’t think love has a reason,' Olanna said.

                'Sure it does.'

                'I think love comes first and then the reasons follow. When I am with him, I feel that I don’t need anything else.' Olanna’s words surprised her, but the startling truth brought the urge to cry."

I think I'm too obsessed with finding reasons...

Furthermore, the weather is really gross. Generally I love storms, just not when I have to trudge to my 8 am lecture the next morning - clothes and bag dripping wet, my face plastered with a pathetic frown. It better not be like this tomorrow. The heavens are currently thrashing against the tiny window of my room. Wind, rain, thunder, maybe hail? The rain sounds like hail, though it probably isn't. Can't be cold enough for hail. God must be punishing me for posting the link for this blog on Facebook.