Eileen Ellen Guthrie: A Self Portrait On A Day Like This- PART ONE

December 2, 2006 and I’m sitting alone in my room, watching the snow fall outside. It’s early afternoon, and I have tons of tasks to accomplish but I need to write about one thing before my mind can ease into the rest of the day.
Maybe it’s a character flaw on my part, a misunderstanding so deep in the who I am of me, I will never be able to understand the reasons people treat me. Only I do understand, I just can’t assimilate a proper change in demeanor or action to make up for the little misunderstandings that shape me in the ‘other’s’ view. And as much as I convince myself that I do not care what every one else thinks, I do I really do, and certain people hold more importance than others, this is the most painful part.
Everyone has a self image and some are more accurate than others, I suppose mine is completely distorted.

UHG- To be continued…. I have to go to the library for a meeting.

Leslie

I miss you my love.

Old Man, I miss you.

Bald head, erratic pace, he was on a mission, he caught my eye he reminded me of something (maybe someone). He was about 55 and he was carrying a bag of oranges and a magazine as he walked out of the library and straight through the bushes lining the trail. Did he notice those bushes, me staring directly at him? He stood still, in front of a bronze statue, the sort of statue you walk past maybe give it a little thought, lovely, sweet, I miss my little girl, I miss my mother, I can’t wait for thanksgiving, who the fuck cares? A mother hold her little girl in her lap, and reading a book, big smiles and pigtails, he put a magazine on the little girl’s bronze book, and opened it up. He didn’t smile; he just looked down on them, sitting on the bench. The real bench next to theirs was covered in snow, he kicked all the snow off, an old man kicking snow off a bench, and surely he wanted to sit there. He kicked the snow off, gave an indignant look to the mother and daughter, and walked straight through the bushes into the library, bag of oranges and all.
One thing I gathered from this is he’s a little strange, and very angry. I wanted to run into that little library and find him reading in the religion section, don’t worry your wife’s just going through a stage, your daughter really loves you, despite the fact she hasn’t hugged you in a decade, she thinks about you all day and every time something impressive happens she wants to call you. You’re the only one to ever break any of her bones. You’ve hurt her more than you could ever know; you were her hero, and how could someone that disdains violence and lives life as a sullen stoic act so violently toward his little love? She’ll live her life wondering about your anger toward her; maybe someday she’ll ask you why, what was going through your head? She doesn’t even think that it’s really wrong, is it wrong? How could he get away with it? Her mother never said a thing. It wasn’t wrong, I deserved it. Do all parents act like this? She always thought they did.
I ran to the bench right when the library door shut, my professor almost running me over with his bike. He has a daughter. It’s an L.L. Bean catalogue. And next to the little girl’s bronze foot is a car key. I picked both up and stuck them in my pocket.

Part of my new Story

Little pieces of past plummet through my perennial despondency, I catch the pieces in jars to light my dark rooms. I sit staring out into the cloudy mountains plump with snow, chomping away at the little flakes and filling their folds, until they are smooth. The yellow light fools the night; a friendly invitation, sleep inside the warm glow, melt the snow. Nothing, nothing, nothing, the sound of nothing, the sound of the word softly falling inside, snowflakes harboring secrets underneath, and I watch while the light of my jars dims and I’m left alone listening to the tumbling sky and whispering earth.


We left her oblivious and alone. It felt right to us. Of course we wanted to get away, feel that new light of freedom. We dropped everything and left her to her moaning and crying. I knew I would never forget her, who could? She was always there, a warning, omniscient and loving. The train chugged, and chugged, relentlessly and though we had no part in its monotonous beating, we were running and pulling and racing as fast as we could, to avoid the thoughts of leaving. I woke up to her scent and I put my clothes on to her breezes. She held me and sung me to sleep, always waiting for the second my eyelids closed to fill my dreams with unspeakable horrors. The bad dreams I could feel, and never remember. Hearts pumped her through veins, little ticks and tocks and clicks, and heart aches reverberated now and then, with her always pushing inside. We were young enough to have these memories blown up like balloons and helium, floating like artificial clouds, all colors, dreaming to fly away.

The Moon

I’m concerned for the well being of my untouched homework and that almost empty bag of cookies; my entire diet, as of late. Cookies, and a few cups of coffee, I really don’t know what I’m going to do when those cookies run out. I suppose I’ll contact a certain mother who sent them to me in the first place and ask for a follow up batch… and when she asks where the other ones went off to so quickly after they were sent, I shall reply, “I was hungry.” Though she probably won’t understand they’re all I eat, she may conclude from my simple words, that I am in an extreme state of poverty. The comfort of knowing she baked them herself, and knowing her, out of the lovely organic stuff. She’ll sing some songs, full of motherly bliss, just being around her I feel in a constant hug. Love is no longer that intolerable variable, trust isn’t a question, she doesn’t even have to say the slightest word and I know, I know, she’s there. She always ties on her old white apron, washed a millions times, and lathers her hands and lower arms, rinsing them in the delicate warm water, under the sun light seemingly always to belong in that little area of the kitchen.
I’ve always strictly adhered to her style of decorating, the way she cracks eggs, and makes coffee, draws and paints, her compassion. She was the first one to put makeup on me, the first one to curl my hair and tell me how smart and how beautiful I am. She taught me how to read. No matter how much I don’t, can’t believe her, she’s always right. In the late hours of night, when I have no one to kiss me and say goodnight, I call her, and she’s there. “Can you see the moon, Eileen?”
“No mother it’s on the other side of the building.”
“Well, I’m looking at it, and if you could see it, we would be looking at the same moon.” She laughs, whimsical and ethereal, I wonder if she really misses me, the way I miss her. We fight a lot, and I fuck up, so much. Some days I miss her so much, I can’t even call her, to bare the sound of her voice, her happiness and my sadness.
“I miss you, my love…. Just always know, I’m with you, at your side.” These 1000 miles are so illusory; they may as well be that separation of Buddhism and Christianity.
I go outside on these cold fall nights. Dark yellow and red leaves the ever present gasp and exhale of the trees, falling down. Sometimes the pack of 10 raccoons will chase me up the path. The little grey kitty, gallops to meet me as I walk the wooden stairs, the moon is there illuminating. She’ll understand when I tell her I’m a miserable wreck and want to run away.

Lately my bad days have increased. Maybe when my mom told me my attitude makes a huge difference, and if Im unhappy I can just think positively everything will be alright- IS a bunch of complete bull shit. I got my official schedule today, which was after I ate French toast on a golf course. My 17.5 hours of courses consist of Physics Chemistry Calculus Earth Systems and fucking P.E.
Thats it. I dont mind endless hours trying to study something that just does NOT make any sense to me, but fucking P.E. NO ONE can make me run unless I want to. High School, I didnt even have to put up with that shit. Its not that I dont care to stretch the pegs, my advanced motor skills which I learned at least 16 years ago, have been successfully put to use, I do not need a probably humorous elderly man telling me to run around 6 times in order to make a mile, and do it under 10 minutes. WHATS THE FUCKIN POINT? None. Its like people constantly asking; whats your major, like it matters to them.
In this seminar earlier, the president of Mines, (I got a hard hat today, yeah, thatll be put to good use, when Im fucking running around the track with a bunch of angry and completely not athletic boys) he says; If youre not sure you want to be here, you should leave. What? Are you serious, youre a fucking dumbass, with your stupid comments about competition and individualism and how smart this years class is I do not want to be here. But Im not usually the type to leave. I stick around.
I made this rash and not thought out decision a couple months ago. Im paying for it now.
I was dragged to the WORST AND GAYEST art festival EVER. Probably. (there Were a bunch of super cute dogs which was cool) I was planning on taking some really awesome photos. I was stoked, lots of weird Colorado people, the preppy ones and the hippies. YAY. Fuck. I lost every little tidbit of care when I saw the crowd, heard the music. If that little river, was actually a big one, I would have sacrificed myself and my camera, and a lot of cash. Too Bad. IT sucked.
I was hungry and I didnt feel like eating on a football field in small circles of freshmen with gross pizza and watermelon, so I made the tough decision to walk an entire mile uphill and downhill to this Chinese restaurant which turned out to be a complete fucking mistake. I came in and stood there, yeah they noticed me, Pick up order? No he looked at me inquisitively and for a few defiant seconds I tried to force him to realize the sad but factual aloneness of my situation. He did, perhaps a culture thing? No. I sat down; the woman threw the teapot at the table, along with a menu and some really cold eyes. So? I have a book, its better than real people, you should try it. But I knew that I felt the same way as her (minus her yelling at the top of her lungs the order to the kitchen, while still in the dining room, so the entire restaurant could hear what the others got), I read some short stories about lonely men, in Egypt looking for a good lay. It really was entertaining me and I was having a decent time, until I looked up. There it was. The Empty booth staring back at me. I sat down initially trying to avoid the other diners, facing the wall, but I soon realized that it was a mistake, because now I was completely alone. The little nails evenly spaced, putting little pillows into the red leather, I wish someone was sitting with me, even though I rarely speak in dining situations, I wish there was someone no hide that awful red leather seat. Someone I could look at while awkwardly sucking on the straw, someone I could make disgusted faces at while he makes an accordion with a couple swift movements of his lower jaw. The rest of the meal was downhill. No, it wasnt a meal, it was a confirmation. A confirmation of solitude, the kind of solitude only madmen embrace, and cant escape from.
A transfer is needed, (preferably to a place where people embrace creativity and shun math) no but really. I just cant take this, my fragile and creative brain is DYING. I knew this when I saw some guys shirt that said Lamb of God, and I got excited, like singing hymns with black people in church. I need love, and to stop eating this entire bag of oreos. I miss you, the real ones. I miss them. I was mistaken about Texas, I used to hate it, and now my love, you are all that I dream of, in my sleepless nights, on the top bunk.

God, I need to write more, it makes me feel better.

immature? i think NOT!

I turned 18 quite a while ago... 2 months to be exact, but today I don't feel 18. I used to feel 18; the day I turned this terrible age, and the following weeks, and months, every single day until this day. Maybe the discouragingly high amount of people calling me immature has really convinced me. BUT I won't give in to thier petty name calling, myspace messages, cell phone conversations, the deletion of my whitty comments, text messages, blasphamous accusations, playing on playgrounds with some little kids, and swingy for large amounts of precious daytime, occasionally loosing my temper, making weird faces when things get all fucked up... NO! I stand above all of this sillyness... but still, I feel quite inept when faced with big decisions and life changing events... it seems I try to play such things down, maybe even pretending that they don't exist. I've always felt so wise... naturally, the oldest of three sisters does feel such well deserved wiseness. I'm trying to decide whether I am immature or not. I for one, always do the dishes... and clean my room, and brush my teeth twice a day, give people money... I don't even know what constitutes this almighty maturity....

A New Piece... it's not done though.

I used to write constantly. I love writing. I suppose lately I haven't written much because of the change in career direction, but I think maybe writing will bring me back to what really makes me happy. Tell me what you think, and where I should go with this.... I have ideas. And I have tons of started writing s and poems and such... so yeah.

Seconds are cut into little particles of dust and thrown back into those uncovered holes on the human body. The standard passing of time, which Einstein deconstructed and rationalized through his theory of relativity and so forth, seems completely irrational. Once the body no longer engages with this dimension post-three, it no longer exists. I guess the detachment from reality is the first aspect of mountain biking which I so dearly allot my passions. William Golding's depiction of man, haunts me as I caress and beat nature's obstacles. One approaches another on the trail, you can only hope for quickness of reaction and thought, and that simple development of coevolution which we forget about while we aren’t experiencing such vigor.
Sometimes he yells at me, “Wait up.” He’s behind me, the cracking of sticks and smashing of leaves… I can hear him, riding behind me. Watch out for passers, listen to make sure he’s still behind; no big holes, or sharp turns. But through this chaos I always seem to wonder about him….
Eight p.m. There was this one day. A Colloquium of constant patriarchs. A colloquium of constant children. We gathered as we always do, in that weird old fashioned way. Sitting around this colossal oak, probably from one of the surrounding forests, or perhaps from Ohio, laughing and toasting, patriarchs at one end and children at the other, the Guthries are oblivious to the status quo while in meeting situations. The waiter asks, “Who got married?” I sat, listening to the clinking glasses and sipping on some diet coke, the quiet sister. Even our relatives sometimes forgot our names, my sisters and I, which always bothers me. The lights were sparkling and the room was heating up, in all of its drunken glory, we sat hating those excruciating minutes that our inebriated parents still had control over such capricious little lives. What were they discussing, in a completely different world, I wasn’t satisfied with either.
Noon. Hot. Sunny. Gross. People in large groups make me nervous and self conscious, and insecure. We opened those large threatening, white, Quaker doors, and watched as some nurses showed us to his room. Who is he? I’ve heard stories, given hugs, listened to him speak about navigation, sailing, medical issues…. The room was dark, and dimmed every little sense of sparkle from any sort of sparkly lights. He took my hand, I didn’t know, that disease which ate his logic and left only the senses to disappear slowly. He couldn’t see, but I smiled, a silent scream. Run, toward some sort of death free dream. They stood filling the room like swollen cotton balls. I could hear sobs from the bathroom in the hall. Is this how everyone dies? Sterile.

My father never mentions his father, unless he's had more than 4 martinis, or a bottle of wine. I don't want my life to go down this way, a sinking ship.