breaking the ice january 14th, 2001 What a long, strange trip it's been. I've been breaking a lot of ice in the past 24 hours. I've been dreaming bizarre dreams. I've been building castles out of lego blocks only to have my daughter come and tear them down again. And it makes her laugh, and it makes me happy when she laughs. It's been a baby day. Let the baby ride on your back. Chase baby around and tickle her manically. Dance around and play baby drums. Make castles out of baby blocks, so that the little balls roll down the chutes. A lot of baby cuddling. And reading books. And Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night sailed off in a wooden shoe... I love this semester. I love my classes. I love finding out history about the place I live, right here, under my feet. I want to make a documentary. To catalogue memories on videotape, before they are lost forever. Random things: the alphabet foam tiles in the floor are arranged in this order: H4MXIY F1D6TN AJUSO8 B5ZC97 3:EKQR VPOWG2 my favourite love song at the moment is "If I Were" by Kermit the Frog. I have seven holes in my shoes. I have 15 pieces of writing currently circulating in submission offices everywhere, and more to come. I wrote the following piece tonight: ****************************************** Captivity by Devon Koren Cynthia studied the dim, fluorescent light creeping in from the outside world, making impact with the bars and casting shadows across her mattress. Those bars, those simple wooden beams that entrapped her, encaged her, closed her off from the world as she thrashed and screamed and howled like a dying animal. Every night, her life flashed before her eyes – an instant, every single detail scurrying from beginning to end, it all seemed so quick – and wondered what crime, what horrible deed she must have committed to be deserving of such imprisonment. She could not remember – the afternoon a vast and soggy blur. There was nothing, she felt. This was injustice. It could be worse, Cynthia thought, as she tossed and turned and cast her eyes across the ceiling. My stomach could be empty. My cell could be infested with rats. I could be freezing and naked in the snow somewhere in Russia, crawling an inch closer to my death any minute. Still, there is no excuse for this. "I demand to see my lawyer," she wanted to scream. "I claim constitutional rights! Was I not born in America? Am I not gifted with certain inalienable rights? What sort of treatment is this for a United States citizen? Don’t I even get a phone call?" There was nothing but silence, and the occasional meanderings of That Woman. Oh, thought Cynthia, how I hate that woman. That woman who pretends to be my friend, and then backstabs me at every single turn. That woman who steals away my most valued possessions, and shackles my every move. That woman who strips me of my dignity every single day, and humiliates me every chance she gets. That woman who tells me if I want to be understood, I must learn to speak English. That woman who leaves me to rot in the solitude of this cell every single night of my life. I need to rally an army, thought Cynthia. I need to form a brigade. Surely there are others like me, out there, undergoing the same unjustifiable treatment. We should protest, start a movement, arm ourselves and march on Washington. Take over the White House, rewrite the laws, free our brothers and sisters across all nations, in every part of the world. Overthrow our captors and revel in our newfound liberty! We will not be oppressed! We will not stand down! With every thought, Cynthia’s foot involuntarily thrust itself against the wooden bars. Her excitement bled out into her flailing limbs, her hysterical gibberish. In a matter of moments, the door of her cell opened, and a thin stream of light poured into the room, silhouetting the ominous figure of a woman. "Cynthia, honey, I know you’re having a lot of fun thinking of ways to conquer the world and all that, but you’re never going to get to sleep if you keep kicking your crib like that." Cynthia finds herself scooped up in the arms of her mother. She nestles her face against a familiar shoulder, plays with the loose strands of hair around the face. Her mother unleashes that hypnotic voice into lullabies, and one eyelid, and then another, finally succumb to the captivity of sleep. ************************************** I have a bumper sticker that says "Napster - Thanks for Sharing". I have not updated my online radio show in almost a month. I've been spending entirely too much time on the computer. My house is still clean. And I've got lots of love. So life is good.