Finding Passion

What is life without a passion, without a love for anything? I feel as though I may be getting there, I'm not sure how I ended up here or what the end result is. A part of me believe that this is a result of the current stage I find myself in, an English major getting ready to graduate as English/Creative writing majors have a tendency to be over-dramatic at times. Ive discussed this with others and looking back, unfortunately Im discovering that I never really enjoyed doing much and I'm trying to figure out why. Maybe I just haven't realized my "purpose" or the "purpose" of passion, perhaps this is something realized over time. I suppose there are things that I can see as having "passion potential" and it also has to do with my particular definition of a passion as I feel it is something that one enjoys to do that encourages them to grow as a person to view the world and life differently. In all honestly I see myself as a realest and see life for what it is,which sometimes depresses me. Im thankful that I've been given and acquired the gift to be able to adequately communicate my thoughts through writing but I'm struggling to find out if its something that I do and enjoy because it something I feel I've naturally been good at or if it really is my passion.

The Blizzard & Gaate-Iselilja (Sunn Jellie & The Blizzard Dub Remix)
Ohmna feat. Nurlaila-Key Of Life (MaRLo Remix)

Rebuilding

..starting all over again. In state of confusion, you made an illusion.

Kwesi Amoah-Forson
As I stare at this photograph I still recognize those in it even after all this time. It’s a picture of myself and my brother with my grandparents. It seems like a sunny ,probably humid day, you can see the sunlight seep through the branches into the camera lens. Light brown dirt, like sand at our feet would rise in the air and get in our eyes as we played outside. My grandfather and I aren’t smiling in the photograph where as my brother and grandmother are. I’d like to say that the reason behind this is that I idolized my grandfather and in this picture I wanted to imitate him, but in all honesty I was a nervous and quiet kid growing up and this picture portrays that aspect of my personality.
It’s actually kind of humorous how this picture encompasses perfectly people’s perception of my brother and I, each on either end of the spectrum. Myself, a quiet, reserved individual and him with a huge smile on his face, outgoing and ready to talk to anyone. Our personalities in a nutshell.

In the corner of the picture you can just see the front of my grandparent’s house, which my brother and I spent much of our time sitting directly in from of the air conditioner, stomping on ants, and swatting at mosquitoes.
The shoes I am wearing in the pictures are a pair of skateboarding shoes I had wanted in 6th grade and at the time I felt as though I was the only one amongst my friends that didn’t have a pair. Eventually my parents gave in, as they often did and bought a pair of them for me. This is my number one clue in deciding when this picture was taken.
My grandmother is wearing a hat that seems fairly new in the picture but is now extremely tattered to the point that she can hardly keep it on their head but still she insists on wearing it nearly every day.
That hat I remember her wearing every Sunday as she dragged our family to church. Back then it was rare to see more than ten people during service, but you were sure to see Iva and her grandkids in attendance. This a small victory, one you will never hear of, “faith has the power to move mountains” or at least is able to keep an old church’s heart pumping in a small dusty town. The church still only as an average of five people that are there each Sunday, but you are sure to see 86 year old Iva in attendance. Through death, changes in location, and relatives not talking to each other I often think of these times and the feelings I was aware of even in the 6th grade. Despite the number of people there, the faith of those in the building is what kept the church going, common belief, common purpose. I learned and kept this as I’ve grown and. Now when I see my grandmother and her beat up old hat, the sun gleaming through it’s holes like the branches in this picture I am reminded of her faith. I would like to think we were on our way to church in this picture but I doubt it considering the clothes my brother and I are wearing.”Casual attire is not church attire”. When my grandmother is gone, when visual images in my mind are hard to come by, I hope this picture will posess the same power as her tattered hat.
I believe this is the last time I went to Arkansas, my grandparents started coming up to Washington over the summer to visit. As my brother and I grew older Arkansas lost its foreign appeal . My parents also never went back until my grandfather died. I wonder if whoever took this photograph ever regrets that they are not forever recorded in this picture. I know the story of those found in my picture, who they are, what the future holds for them even after the picture was taken. I find comfort in that security.
While looking at this photograph I can’t help but think about love for the family, true love for them even if you don’t get to spend as much time with them as you wish. We are far away but this picture always brings us closer together, if only in my mind and that is good enough for me.

I Am the Winner

I’m about seven or eight years old living in this large old house where we catch frogs and salamanders in the evenings and the smell of sap and bark brings with them a constant sense of security and belonging. What I’ll never forget about this neighborhood is the fact that it was a cul-de-sac and my house is the last house at the end of the street, the only two story house right down the middle while a row of one story houses sits on each side of the street. I feel like a king looking down upon the living quarters of his subjects as I look out of my window and down at the houses that trail down to the end of the road. I decide to go out and play with my little brother as we often do joined by all the other neighborhood kids who especially like playing with us because we have a small adjustable basketball hoop that we drag out of the garage and shoot baskets on until dinner time. We stay outside for hours as some kids leave for dinner or grocery shopping or randomly called in by their mothers as mothers often do at the most inconvenient times, but they always come back out to play some more. There are another set of brothers around the same age as my brother and I and although neither set of brothers will admit it we have an unspoken rivalry between each other, whether it is racing bikes to the end of our street, playing kick-ball, or playing basketball. Sometimes they beat us but no matter what the outcome is I always feel as though I am the winner, because I have a mother that loves and cares for me. My mom yells out of the window for me to put the basketball hoop back into the garage when we are done playing with it but I’m having too much fun to be concerned with such technicalities and come to the conclusion that I’ll be much too tired to drag the hoop back inside and decide to leave in where it was, at the end of our drive way.

We finish our last game and my brother and I run inside our house to wash our hands for dinner. We push each other while we walk up the stairs trying our best not to knock down the pictures that are hung up along the wall, as I reach the stairs I hear a loud screaming coming from just outside the window. Stretching up over the windowsill I notice the younger of the two rival brothers with his finger caught in one of the hole used to adjust the hoop and a wave of fear comes over me. I know that the hoop was not supposed to be there, I was supposed to move it, mom is going to kill me. My brother I run back down the stairs, not pushing each other this time and dash outside where we carefully remove the kid’s finger, covered in blood, from the hoop. My first priority is to shut this kid up as I am already amazed that no one else has come outside to see who was being killed out in the middle of the street. We sit down on the driveway for a while until he calmed down, the whole time all I can think about was the long trek I was going to have to take to his house, the talking to I am going to get from my mom, but worst of all, having to enter this kid’s house and having to talk to his mother. While walking to his house I realize that the names of these two boys I can never remember mainly because I just don’t care enough, but I always get the impression that their mother feels as though she would have a better life if they hadn’t been born and ruined all of her fun. She always seems upset, mad at life, anger which she often takes out on her children. I always do whatever I can to not have to enter their house but when I do I can’t help but notice that their mother never leaves the black couch that they have in their living room, food wrappers and papers strewn about as if she really does use the living room as a room in which to do most of her living. Their house smells a lot like they do, somewhat like trash covered up by some sort of cleaning solution which is so strong in the air that when I leave their house I can often taste the lemon-lime cleaning solution in my mouth. This visit is no different.

As we enter their home we stand before her, my brother, myself and the neighbor boy still sobbing while the mother looks at him looking slightly angrier at life than she usually is. It’s times like these when I hate being the oldest, I find that somehow it is expected that I have to be the brave one and speak up even when I’m really not involved. As I open my mouth to speak God decided to bless me with a small miracle, as she asks her son what happened instead of me. As his story progresses, less and less is understood as the tears and sobs return muddling his speech and I can tell that his mother is losing interest and is becoming more agitated as his story begins to become too long distracting her from her TV show. While this is happening I see that the front door is still open and I motion for my brother to follow me as we leave the kid crying in his living room, his mother telling him to go to his room.

On the way home I think about how different my brother and I are from those sets of brothers, although we living on the same street that is all we have in common. We get to our driveway and I start to drag the hoop up to the garage as my brother grabs the other end helping me easy it in between the cars tightly parked inside. I realize that my mom may have not even seen what happened but is definitely wondering where we are. I quickly consider lying and just as quickly scratch that idea. I know that lying will get me nowhere fast as my mom can easily tell when I’m lying. I might as well cut my losses and tell her what happened, she will listen, talk to me about how I should have been more responsible, I might even get grounded for a while but chances are I’ll be okay. When the judge who is mom gives her verdict I complain for a while but it’s nothing I won’t live through, and when it’s time for bed I’ll still get a kiss good night, no matter what happeneds I will always be the winner.