Multimodal - Zach

Finding Peace on a Dirt Road

            Life has its way of throwing troubles and worries my way. Whether it be something in school, a family issue, or a girl I can’t seem to get off my mind, I seem to always have something tangling up my thoughts. I’ve tried all the classic methods of relaxation you can think of, but none of them ever really work. One thing that does have an almost magical power over my mind however, is the country. Something about driving down an open dirt road, surrounded by tall green grass, with a fresh breeze of air blowing through the window calms my thoughts. There’s been many occasions in my life where I’ve had to drop everything I was doing and just hop in my car to drive out to that spot where I could escape the pressure of life happening all around me. There’s also been times where I’ve stumbled upon a secluded country drive in the middle of nowhere and still I feel like I am right at home. When I add music into all of that, the countryside becomes a solid place of refuge where I can find peace.

            I remember one occasion that drove me out into the country quite vividly. It was my senior year of high school, I had been in an off and on relationship with a particular girl multiple times. We hadn’t talked for a few days and so when I got a text from her I knew it would be interesting. For the sake of too much detail, I’ll only say that the text upset me greatly, and came at a very bad time. I immediately grabbed my keys, ran out to my car, and tore out of the driveway. I was gone, speeding down the highway to get to my spot. The only sound in the car was the humming of the engine, and the tires against the road as I made sharp turns along the way. I was motionless, my hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. The sun was just starting to set behind the mountains, the orange and blue color caught the corner of my eye. I rolled down my window and turned to my left to look at the sunset. The warm prairie breeze rushed in through the window and ran quickly through my lungs, sending a calming sensation throughout my mind and body. Time suddenly slowed way down, and without realizing it, I had forgotten what had just drove me out here. I didn’t care about her at that moment. I was in love with the beauty of God’s country.

            I drove a little further and found a turnoff where I could park. I turned on some music, got out and walked to the back and popped the tailgate to sit down. I gazed west into the sunset. I could hear the sound of birds chirping all around, the tall grass whistling against the wind. I was lost in the moment. I sat there for a good while, the darkness began to settle in. I stood up and took one last look around, trying to gather a snapshot of this place, my place, so that I could come back to it later. I got back in the car and headed back home. When I got back home the thoughts of her started to make their way back into my head. I plopped down in bed and turned on the music again. The music took me back to my place, and as I slowly dozed off the worries shed away once more. And once more, I was in peace out there on that dirt road.

            

Hailey VO Multimodal Narrative

At the age of raging hormones, when most of my classmates were giddy with petty juvenile crushes, I experienced my first love. Parents and friends initially dismissed our relationship as a typical case of short-lived puppy love, but as time went on it became clear to everyone that it was something real and different: it was young love. For the entirety of my pre-teen youth Dylan and I were constantly together, but as the end of our freshman year of high school neared, it was abruptly cut short. I was moving to the opposite side of the country. We were completely distraught, nevertheless, we thought it best to block each other from our thoughts, move on, and experience new things and new people. Throughout my remaining years in high school I did my best to suppress the mess of unresolved feelings my heart held as a result of the relationship ending so suddenly, but as I grew older they only grew stronger and added to distant fantasies conjured up in my head. I imagined us seeing each other for the first time again and being whisked back into a fairytale romance. I imagined the life we had invisioned as kids. I imagined us growing old together. My daydreams, however, were tainted by the occasional news from my friends back home that Dylan wasn’t acting right; that he seemed sad. This news only fueled my fantasies and he began to relentlessly haunt my dreams night after night. Sometimes these dreams blissfully embodied the fabrications of my emotions but sometimes they epitomized my worst nightmare where Dylan would walk by while I screamed for his attention, as if I didn’t exist . As it turns out, these nightmares were not far from the reality that was taking place miles away.

As the years passed, old friends began to express serious concern. Dylan was becoming antisocial, they said. Dylan was talking to himself. But being so far away, these odd behaviors were hard for me to imagine and it was easy to dismiss them and keep up with my childlike fantasies and memories. Time progressed still and my inquiries about Dylan brought more bizarre stories. Rumors spread and speculations gathered. The school even had Dylan drug tested.

Between the incessant love I had been clinging on to so deeply and the inconceivable stories surrounding Dylan, my emotions were so confused and frustrated that I was completely exhausted. The chance to see Dylan and put my unsettled feelings to rest, however, finally arrived during last year’s summer, when my brother was to be married back in our hometown. My hope was either that, upon seeing him, I would discover that my feelings for him had diminished and I could move on, or, we would be struck by our love once again and create the fairytale fantasy I had been invisioning all these years. Whatever the outcome, what I truly needed was closure, yet the reality of the situation was something I could never have anticipated. The Dylan that arrived at my door was not the Dylan I had dreamed about. This Dylan was barely recognizable from the one I’d fell in love with. This Dylan stood like a statue when I reached my arms around to hug him. This Dylan stared vacantly ahead as I did my best to initiate small talk, unmoving, as if he hadn’t heard me. His eerie calmness scared me. I spent the rest of the night doing anything I could to provoke some sort of response out of him, but he barely blinked.

During the next few days of my trip I analyzed obsessively about what I had just experienced. My initial reaction was anger. Why was he doing this? Was it for attention? Why haven’t his parents done anything? Why couldn’t he just say something? I continued to see this new, stone-like Dylan each night with no success of having these questions answered. I waited for him to snap out of it, hoping to break him and find the old Dylan underneath. Finally he spoke. He told me he went to see a psychiatrist that day and that they performed a scan of his brain. What they found were severe abnormalities within his neurotransmitters possibly caused by a serious head injury. This hit me so hard that it knocked the wind right out of me. Something was seriously wrong. I felt so stupid for not realizing it sooner and disgraceful for being mad at him. I felt scared, not knowing how to react or talk to him. I became overwhelmed as the realization set in; that all the things I had imagined my whole life would never happen, that the Dylan I knew and loved was never coming back.

It’s an odd thing to grasp that someone doesn’t have control of their own brain. I’ve spent infinite hours trying to imagine what it would feel like to slowly feel your own mind slip away from you. What I’ve learned since then is that Dylan’s condition caused him to fall into a severe depression leading to a catatonic state. Like a person in coma, they are neither alive nor dead, and the grief from this sort of living loss I’m afraid will never fade. Although it is comforting to know that after years of uncertainty he is finally diagnosed and receiving proper treatment, it is an ongoing struggle to sort out and confront my emotions, as I feel uneasily stuck on the brink of a moral dilemma: Is this the time to be there for Dylan when he needs it most? Does he even know who I am? Does he remember what we had? Does he know who he is? Or, is this my chance for closure; to accept that the hilarious, smart and caring Dylan that I fell in love with no longer exists, and move on? My brother once told me that first loves last forever, however, in the case of my first love I’m not sure how forever fits in.

Multi-Modal

"Just Breathe"

Just Breathe

Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday- that’s busy week. I have a paper due tomorrow and I haven’t even started. Shit…two of my projects this week are being critiqued and all of that on top of a damn midterm. I hate school. Everything will be so much better once I graduate and get a job that I love (hopefully). That reminds me, I need to start filling out those applications. Sometimes I think life would be ten times easier if I just won the Powerball. That is a lot of zeros.

Breathe.

This is what I imagine comes from the minds of each and every person I run into these days. I have this to do… I have that to do… Let me check my schedule. Hardly anyone has the time to sit down and think, much less take the time to breath. I cant remember the last time I sat down and focused on something other than what classes I have for school, what’s dues this week, or what I have to get done later tonight. The doctor asked me the other day if I wanted to schedule my check up in advance for two months from now. I told her I couldn’t because I hardly know what pile of plans I will have next week not to mention next month. My mind is constantly roaming like a racecar but eventually I need a to make a pit stop. Don’t we all?

Breathe.

I encourage you to drop your pens, close your books, silence your cell phones and shut your eyes. Inhale once and exhale everything building up inside of you Forget the last text message you received. Don’t worry about the tests you have coming up in your next classes. Disregard the fight you got into with your girlfriend or boyfriend last night, they’ll get over it. The real troubles in your life are going to be the ones that never crossed your mind. If you can, stop thinking, and focus on your body.

Just breathe.

Untitled from Tony Matovina on Vimeo.

Ruvini DeFonseka- Multimodal Assignment

Lindsey Bell - Multimodal assignment

Moving should be a joyous occasion, right? The idea of starting over, starting new, fresh, clean. But these are not the associations I make on this day. Instead I am constantly reminded of why we had to move in the first place. You moved out. Left a loving and caring wife for some new girl. Left your family for a new one. Like trading in your trusted but beat up pickup truck for a new, shiny, impractical sports car. The trouble you caused our family boiled down finally to us having to move. Move away from where I grew up, where I lived my entire life, where I had so many memories of better times, joyous times. But those times were with you and now you’re not around anymore. We had to leave that place of so many memories and give it over to some other family so they can build up their memories and steal away the good times that I had. The same thing might happen to them, the husband might move out and find a new girlfriend to run around with and leave his family behind too. And they will have to start over just like we did.

Moving I guess isn’t what is really getting me down, but it’s a symbol of what you did to us. You put us through three years of anguish and stress and this is the end result. Mom has had to do this all by herself too. With me being away all the time I haven’t lived it like Mom has. Everyday she is reminded of what you did to her. Everyday since June she had to live without a home until now. Everyday since 2008 that you weren’t there. Everyday that she thought you might come back. Then she realized you weren’t coming back. The divorce was finalized not long ago and that made it final. Moving from that house is final. Moving into this one makes it final.

She has had to deal with all of this by herself. Just the physical toll of her moving disgusts me. The emotional toll makes me feel worse. The fact that you have no idea, no conception of what you did and what kind of shit storm you created makes me physically sick. I want to throw up. I can’t eat. And you have no idea. Not a clue.

I know you’re supposed to tell yourself that moving is a perfect occasion to start over and create a new life, and that will be true in time, but it’s difficult to swallow right now. I can’t stomach it. Of course moving under different circumstances would be different.

Families move when they have children because they need more space. They find a different house that’s bigger, in a better neighborhood, better schools, less crime, etc. It’s happy and it symbolizes growth and progression in their lives. Like a hermit crab that has outgrown it’s shell and needs to find a bigger one. They do it out of necessity just like we did, but in an opposite way. We had to downsize. We had to decrease our family instead of expand it. We had to move to a worse neighborhood, a smaller house. You did this to us. You did this to Mom.

It is exciting. I’m telling myself that now. But I still can’t stop thinking about why this is happening.

What Goes Up Must Come Down

What Goes Up Must Come Down from Hannah Green on Vimeo.

Huffing it up a hill. Heart pounding. Sweat dripping. Legs aching. Phew! Made it.

As I hiked my way to the top of Green Mountain the other day, I wondered why I do it. Why do I always have an insatiable desire to push it uphill? In fact why does anyone put themselves through the pain of reaching the top when there are always easier, less excruciating paths? Suddenly I realized life is that way.

Step after step, day after day, year after year, the hills come and so do their peaks. Reaching the “top” could mean many things. Physically reaching the top is a sign of strength, historically it’s a sign of dominance and power, and today it is the unattainable goal of many. Along the way I always question myself: why do I do this?; is there not an easier way?; am I being weak, lazy, incompetent? Something I never question is if I will make it. The pain caused is of my own volition. I do it to myself, for myself. No one else is ever held responsible.

What is even more ironic about the symbolism contained in reaching the “top” is that you always have to return to the bottom. As the law of gravity states, what goes up must come down. In high school, I looked forward to my senior year from the first day of class as a freshman. Once it arrived, I reveled in the notion of being at the top. Younger students looked up to me, teachers respected me, people knew who Hannah Green was; then college came and plop! I’m right back down at the bottom again. My sister graduated a few years ago and now has found herself at the bottom too—unemployed.

The only person who I know that is at a sustainable “top” is my Grandad. At 96 years old, a successful lawyer and owner of a bank he is at the top of the totem pole—that is in the financial world. His health is certainly failing. His mind is remarkably sharp, yet there are moments when he says things in a mock child voice. If you have ever seen Benjamin Button, well I that is my granddad. He is reverse aging. Physically and mentally he relies on people to help him, just as an infant relies on his parents. So, maybe he is not really at the top, but almost back to the bottom again.

Skiers and snowboarders know the feeling, getting to the bottom only to have to sit patiently on the ski lift to get to the top of the mountain. Rock climbers, pilots, sky divers, etc. all await the ease of the downhill only to want to go back up. In this lies another revelation in that we always want to go against the laws. Going up is a rebellion of sorts, a rebellion against gravity. While humans are unable to fly freely like birds, we have made ways to simulate the feeling only a select few will enjoy as they journey beyond Earth’s gravitational pull.

Right now I am in an uphill battle with an injury, but I can see the top getting a little closer. Sometimes I slip and stumble, taking a few steps back down. I keep pushing on. I may have to give up what I love momentarily, running, but eventually I’ll reach the top. Only this time I hope to not encounter the bottom of the hill with an injury, just simply the bottom only to be able to run up it again the next day.

Life is a never-ending uphill battle. What amazes me is the fact that we never give up, we persevere. Unlike making lemonade from lemons, you have to keep your head up and look towards the top with a hill; at the same time, you have to keep focused on what is right in front of you, or else you might trip. In my short life I have already seen many hills where the sweat drips, the scratches bleed, and the tears surface. They, the hills, will always be there, some long, some short. Indubitably my path will go up them not once, not twice, but innumerable times—that is life.

Dear Juan - Multimodal Narrative by Sierra Weir

Dear Juan from Sierra Weir on Vimeo.

I think we have more in common than a fish and a person should. You can’t have friends in your bowl; you’d kill them. That’s the thing. I don’t have many friends anymore. I’m no beta, but my bowl is empty. I have acquaintances, but I’ve given up on the idea of having a best friend. I’ll save that for when I get to pick out my first dog. It’s really a funny thing when friends that you think the world of start to melt from their pedestals. Everybody goes through rough patches. I feel that I’m the only person who has to go through full editing when it comes to friends. My mom and dad have disagreed about the types of friends that I keep and are always pointing out more suitable kids to associate with. “Jennifer just got a full ride scholarship AND she works at the soup kitchen on her weekends. You should call her up!” Jennifer probably would have loved to ingratiate me into the scrapbooking groups and Future Homemakers of America meetings. The truth is I had always strived to spend time with other girls who were more…exciting. I worked six to seven days a week over the summer waiting tables in order to afford to be frivolous with the girls I admired. It’s safe to say that mothers really do know best. I’m a bit unsatisfied in the friend department these days. You know my mom, Juan. Every time you come home for the holidays with me, she has the tap water conditioned for you already.
Let me just tell you more about my mom. She is a smart lady. She grew up in a very Jewish family. She had to go to Sunday school and read Hebrew and eat brisket with kraut. Her family only drove Cadillacs. She got bat mitzvahed, and I’m glad I wasn’t there, especially for the Torah reading because she sings like a drunken man. My mom is the head of our house, no question to it. I go to my dad with fingers crossed when I need new privileges or raises in my allowance, hoping he doesn’t say, “Take it up with your mother first.” But he always ends up saying that. She proceeds to purse her lips, shake her head, and sigh audibly. My sister storms out of the room whenever she does this. Tell my sister she takes after her and you’ll get a reaction as violent as shaking baking soda and vinegar in a bottle. My mom is extremely pragmatic. We shopped at second-hand stores up until fourth grade. I was liberated from leftover Gap and allowed to look over the clearance rack at Ross and Marshalls when I started complaining hard enough. Jesus, I hate those places. The smell and organized chaos alone is enough to knock out a small Labrador retriever. My mom gives good advice. I once dated a “project,” giving up most of myself in the process of changing him. It didn’t work out. I have learned never to use the word boyfriend around her or to bring boys home to my parents. When my mom recently asked about a boy I told her about, she firmly reified that I shouldn’t get distracted. “It’s ok, Mom. It’s an amorous friendship.” It actually worked. My mom is all about school and character building. I used to joke in high school that she would prefer me to get pregnant then get below a B in any of my classes. I ended up getting a D in Precalculus. I was shunned for a week and nagged for a lifetime about that grade. “Oh you didn’t get in that program? It must be that math grade, Myrtle.” She calls me Myrtle. It’s weird, I know. No one knows that either. Naturally she monitors my friends. She likes kids who have good eye contact, manners, and little idle time. When I got in trouble last year with friends that never made her cut, she said, “When you lie with the dogs, you’re bound to get fleas.” Yes, Sensei Sue, young grasshopper has learned.
I decided to change my lifestyle after the run-in with the law last year. I chose not to drink on the weekends anymore, stay up late, or take my wallet out for walks in the mall. I also chose to stay out of touch with the friends who landed me in the legal situation in the first place. No need to elaborate on that one other than it was a mess and left me with trust issues. I was slowly becoming less of a wannabe-socialite and more of the Old-Woman-in-a-Shoe.
I figured out that I was losing favor with my old roommates when I was no longer part of their inside jokes. Don’t you hate that about girls? They always have inside jokes and sort of nudge each other and flash their mascaraed eyes about like cats on the prowl. I think that was the problem initially; their girly-girl tendencies. These friends used to chastise me for speaking in high vocabulary. I would lament that they would ostracize me for it. They then would chastise me for using the words chastise and ostracize. Excuse me for not dumbing down to be more attractive. I feel that that’s where the most value is placed for those girls. Now I do love getting gussied up occasionally and being called beautiful and definitely shopping, but when I invited these girls up to my home in the mountains, my mom told me after the menagerie had left that she had never heard so many hairdryers going off at once before. She also didn’t care for all of the powdered makeup caught in the bathroom counter grout. I just shrugged.
Now that I’m away from the lifestyle that I used to call typical college, I see the façade my friends put up. I deleted my Facebook account because that’s the worst contributor to social appearances. I don’t care how many shots Claire and Lindsey took last Wednesday night. Why are they talking about it still, on Tuesday? Walking back from the art studio late Thursday nights and seeing the Thirsty Thursday spectacle makes me happy that I won’t have to deal with a hangover. I mean what are these kids doing in school? Needless to say, their planners probably don’t look like mine. They are clowns: the cackling girls in five-inch stilettos hobbling around like Snookies and J-Wows, the boys addressing me, ”Hey biddy, where the party at?” and when I don’t respond I get, “Bitch.” First of all, I don’t respond to biddy and secondly, I can tell you’re not my type even in the dark. I rather sleep well and get back in touch with my prana the next day on a run or in the yoga studio. I like hanging around my clean apartment with my roommate who shares the same feelings about the importance of school and success and using big words. She laughs every time I come by your bowl and sing my own rendition of Louis Armstrong’s, “What a Juan-derful World.” Sure I might be a cat-lady when I’m older or come off as too serious to my peers now. I just really don’t want to mess up anymore, and I’m sick of friends that don’t seem to understand.
At least I have you, Juan.