memoir – ʚ sloom ɞ

behind the stage curtain

a memoir about the nervousness before a school talent show performance

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* :･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

G, C, F.

Hold F for twice as many beats.

My fingertips press the nylon strings against the wood of the instrument. I repeat the pattern multiple times over—pressing, but not making a sound. G, C, F. Hold F for twice as many beats. My fingers transpose along the fretboard from one position to another, yet the rest of my body is as stiff as a board. I take a deep breath. I’ve practiced this too many times to be concerned about a mess-up, yet my thoughts trickle to the worst of outcomes.

I am surrounded by pitch-black darkness, only knowing where to stand by how stage crew directs me. F, C, G on “believe.” I’m doing it again. It’s something I cannot help. I bring the instrument close to my ear, near-silently pluck all four strings, just enough to hear the familiar keys. Tune is correct. Chords are memorized. Breathe. I wipe my sweaty palms against the fabric of my short dress, the whiteness of it almost bright enough for me to see through the dark.

I’m brought back to reality when the crowd on the other side of the long, black curtain erupts into sudden applause. I have no memory of hearing the act before me, though I’ve gone to enough rehearsals to remember the faces of the two young boys, one beatboxing whilst the other sings opera. A bit of an odd choice to place a singing act after something so silly, though the playfulness of the ukulele seemed a smoother go-to than most.

I turn my head away from the mic, quickly clear my throat and straighten my posture. The crowd grows silent as the curtains open, almost in slow-motion, making a slight squeak only heard from my side of the stage. Bright lights flash, an excessive amount of warmth hitting my skin. Butterflies in my stomach. Slight shaking of my hands.

All eyes are on me. Waiting, watching every movement I make. They can see me, yet I cannot see them. It’s too dark and the lights are excruciatingly bright. My gaze searches for the bright red exit sign, the centre point of the auditorium. Eye contact. Look ahead. Don’t squint.

And, most importantly, remember to smile.

I take a silent breath and begin to pluck the strings to the intro of the song. G, C, F. I look down at my fingers a few seconds at a time, carefully picking the tune in fear of a mess-up. They ring clean. As the last note rings through the auditorium speakers, my serious expression grows into a huge grin as I hit the first chord of the song and belt the lyrics into the mic.

My nervousness instantly vanishes, like clouds passing in front of the sun, my muscle memory kicking in. The words to the song grow in my vocal cords, flowing from my throat and passing through my lips, a steady river stream of musical melody. My body naturally moves to the beat of my own sound, a subtle swaying back-and-forth of my hips. The fingers on my left-hand dance along the fretboard as my right keeps up with the rhythm.

Every inch of my body and every effort of my soul is working in harmony, like one gigantic entity made up of separate parts, with different functions, though all working together for the same purpose. Up until this moment I’ve never felt so completely confident with myself.

I hear a few sounds of approval and calls of my name every now and then, though as soon as I get to the chorus of the song, the singular voices become a loud, bright chorus. “I’d like to make myself believe…” which instantly spikes my energy up to euphoria. I strum harder, I belt out louder. This is where I belong. This is what I want to do for the rest of my life.

Lost in the moment, I don’t have to remind myself to smile.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* :･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

this is where you’ll find me

a memoir on finding solace within the earth’s sky.

During the past few years, I have become an emotional teenage mess. My mind has begun to feel like a melting pot of emotions, a tight circular bowl with my thoughts being the hundreds of marbles thrown in, circling around and around and around until they fall into a hole of oblivion. On the outside, this may not be obvious, but often times I am overwhelmed with the amount of information bouncing around inside my head. That being said, I’ve had trouble finding a space where I can be at peace of mind—after all, I can’t exactly run from myself.

A few years ago on a late summer evening, I was at home when my mother and I got into an argument—about what, I don’t recall. Though I remember being so fed up with her, bursting with anger, I stormed out of the house without much thought. And because I left so suddenly, I had nothing on me—no keys, no phone, just myself… and my thoughts.

I lived on the second floor of my apartment building, so I was able to quickly run down a flight of stairs and out the door into the humid summer atmosphere. It was cooler than it’d be in the day, and the sun was making its way toward the horizon. Still cooling off my anger, I made large strides away from my home.

Across from where I stood resided this paved path along this huge field—a “hydro field” occupied by large towers and electrical lines, as well as some soccer nets where teams of young children go to play in the warmer months.

Toward the direction of the field was a roaring sky bursting with colours, with reds and oranges and even some purples and blues. The sun stood boldly against a patch of blood-red sky, not a single cloud in sight. It was beautiful, and just like that, I felt my boiling anger sucked away, my attention being alluded by the infinity of the vibrant colours. It was as though the sky had a voice, and it was calling me by my name.

Every step a bounce, the only thought I had was to chase that glimmering ball in the sky. I ran up the swiveling path toward the direction of the setting sun. It met the horizon toward the west, which led me down a hill right by a park reservoir; a dam of sorts acting as a barrier between some quaint lands and a mini “lake,” the dam also playing as a bridge. Large electrical towers stood further ahead in the water.

I settled along the bridge, hoisting myself up the metal railing and sat comfortably, where my eyes took in the colours of the sky. Far ahead of me, A tall office building stood out with a bright red sign, with other small buildings in the distance. The reservoir stood at the intersection of two streets, where cars drove swiftly with their flashing lights. I could see all the traffic, yet amazingly, I heard none of it at all. It was far enough away.

I watched silently as buses and trucks passed along the orange sky, so many lives going by me that I will never meet. People who go through just as much as I do, yet none of it I may ever know. Realizing all of this made me feel so tiny, so insignificant—but not in a bad way. It was as though my existence was merely a grain of sand, a sailing cloud observing from up above, watching the tiny people move by. Life goes on. The Earth’s lullabies cradled me in its warmth.

I stuck to my spot along the railing as the sun tucked away for the evening and light faded from the sky. The night was just as beautiful. Stars twinkled against the navy blue, the sun’s sister offering just as much as her. City lights lit the sky. Whooshes of airplanes up above filled the air. I sat, observing anything and everything.

As I got home late that evening, I greeted my mother with a warm smile. She seemed to have taken her alone time well, too, as neither of us brought up the argument we had a mere few hours earlier. I didn’t want to fight—not at that moment, anyway. I plopped in my bed, daydreaming about the feeling of infinity I have just experienced.

While I don’t go toward that reservoir frequently, when I need a place to calm down and collect my thoughts, I find myself walking towards that direction, night or day. And every so often, I look up at the gorgeous looking sky and hear it calling my name. And I can never resist the chase.

a.m.

a memoir about finding inspiration in late, sleepless nights

Late nights I often find myself awake to dark painted skies, the tall tree in view of my bedroom window buried within the evening’s silhouette. As I venture into the a.m. I would always notice how particularly still the air during these particular hours, with everyone in the house already sound asleep. Except for me, left with the dim lamp light and my thoughts.

I cuddle up against my thick blanket sheets, letting the fabric embrace me in it’s warmth. I want to sleep, but I keep awake. It doesn’t feel as though I’m forcing myself, no, but I don’t particularly want to be here, either. I rest against my sea of pillows, tossed around in an irregular pattern from nights of an unmade bed. I lay on a vessel, ship-like, where with every sleep it sails me to my dreams.

Maybe if I turned the lamp off would I fall asleep. No, not yet. For my spirit has an empty, unfulfilled feeling. Contemplation churns my gears. It bothers me, as the more I ponder, the more I let them consume me. Some days I allow for the taps beneath my eyes to open, salted waters flow and clog my nose; other times, I stare into nothingness, still here but also elsewhere. I yearn for distraction yet something more meaningful, a place to pour these emotions like secrets in a bottle.

My favourite part of the night is the way it seems to sing songs. From my window the moon watches over me, and the glowing beams of planes often pass through. The quiet atmosphere colours my spirit with creative energy, an urge to bring life to my ideas before they’re forgotten.

Depending on my energy, different songs sing; some nights the speakers of my music player tell tales, popping in a CD to match my mood. I keep the volume to a low, though I recite the words as though I am my own neighbour.

Other nights, I carefully pull out my little ukulele, being my own storyteller as I come up with the melody on my own. If my feelings desire, I also bring with me my sketchbook, sketching ideas for my next dream.

It comforts me as much as my blankets until I become tired and doze off, my heart whispering melodies as I dream into the rising morning sky. In my sleep, I thank the darkness for its songs.