Sandpaper

My last news article of the semester was about the 501 reading and Sandpaper which based on creative nonfiction writing. I believe this article is very good and compact with rich descriptions and a lot of information.(something I usually lack in most of my articles) This article idea came up when I realized there was a 501 reading this week, and why not kill to birds with one stone by going to the reading and writing an article about it because I believe the English department is heavily trying to make creative nonfiction more popular which I find interest in because I love writing creative nonfiction!

Right now I'm in Engl 623(Creative Nonfiction) and I decided to submit one of my essays to Sandpaper. What a better way to end this blog with an essay I wrote!

Yellow

            I feel a deep love for yellow, a moment my heart would bleed itself dry for.  This moment was unexpected. Yellow danced around the cool summer air and gently sunk into my skin. Yellow was inevitable, the color streamed through my body finding the right path to my heart. I believe my heart turned yellow for a moment. I fought happy tears, trying my hardest to avoid what was happening inside me. Now I wish I could’ve been strong enough to let those tears flood my innocent eyes. Crying would’ve felt moral. I think those tears are still trapped within my body, fighting the jail cell I have locked them in.

            I feel a deep love for music, the love a person would bleed themselves dry for. This love was fated, a gentle addiction. Music has affected me and my belongings. Headphone hair; scratches, metal worn, and screen water logged on iPod; slow computer because of too many illegal downloads; sudden outbursts of emotion, smiling, and dancing; two speakers blown, subwoofer set to max volume; absence of money; procrastination; a car ride never silent, car cassette adapter never ejected; 9,227 items, 25.6 days, 53.96 GB, 30 playlists. I was naïve to know where this love for music came from until I wrote about yellow, that writing about yellow would lead me back to where it all started.

           

            The tall white ceilings reflected the sound of The Kooks into my ears. The sound touched me like the purple ocean tide kissing the shoreline. The song wasn’t familiar, but the words sung seemed to be. My love for the sea had been represented within the song, the lyrics wrung so true, and the acoustic guitar, tranquil like the calm sea. We laid down on the beds in the loft with our heads where our feet should go. Jarret broke the silence next to me. His voice traveled below to the living room.

“Cori what is the name of this song?”

 “Seaside,” she responded.

            I drive by myself. My surfboard nudges my right shoulder. I turn onto Ocean Boulevard and play “Seaside”.  The sun is orange, the rays peak above pink clouds that hang over the horizon line, casting bright light through my windshield.  I feel warmth across my bare chest. The sun and sea breeze join me through the open windows. I cross the bridge watching the tide crawl along the shore. The sea fills up naturally along the sand. I join the song, singing the words to the open sea. I fell in love with the seaside.

           

            We drove around a lot. I liked driving around with her, she played good music. We liked to show each other our music as the car faded away along the yellow lined roads. I remembered she played “Lazy Eye” by Silversun Pickups, my ears a virgin to the different sound. The first verse explained how I felt about her, the moment I had been waiting for all my life. Not just that moment where we sat silently next to each other serene and in love, but the moment since I met her. The words were powerful. The way they were sung caught me off guard emotionally. A smile broke out. My emotions hugged my insides until the song was over.  We traveled with no purpose, just to listen next to each other. No words were spoken only if we had something important to say.

            I listen to “Lazy Eye”, but I don’t think about her anymore. I form along the curves of the green coach in the living room. I love my friends. I show them this song. A candle is lit on the coffee table distributing life and good scent to everyone. If I were to show a person a song, it would be this one. I don’t care what type of music a person likes. I want them to listen to this because I know they will feel something, and to know that someone feels something is special to me.

           

            I sat on a tall peach chair in a musty cluttered living room, my body irregular on the surface from a sweatshirt. The stench of old cigarettes and vinyl saturated my body. My friends were upstairs smoking weed for the first time. A black cat was walking along the oriental carpet, its silent body passed by in segments from the clutter of albums, books, and old clothes.  I noticed the soft sound of music playing on the stereo next to me on a thick old wooden stand. An album rested upon the dusty stereo. “Direction” by The Starting Line. I heard either Jarret or Brian cough from upstairs. I turned the grey knob on the stereo amplifying the song. The black cat stopped in place and looked up at me, my head bobbed and my hands gently smacked the arms of the couch.

            The traffic is heavy along the wide highway. The orange afternoon sun gently touches the side of my face, ear buds propped in both ears.  I don’t know how many times I have listened to this song in a row. I never finish the whole 4:49, pressing or holding the replay button to either go back to the start or rewind back to certain part. I rewind to the 1:00 point a lot. I watch the world pass me by, places and people I don’t know. This was a great time to think, I had the world at my fingertips, and “Best of Me” by The Starting Line playing in my ears. I thought about love, I thought about lyrics of the song coming true, and I thought about nothing. What a great feeling it was to think about nothing. I listen to the same song.

           

            The walls emitted an orange glow. We listened to the same band for hours while the fire showed us how calm a night could be. I laid my head back on the soft white cushion, my body a rag doll along the body of the couch. I couldn’t see the ocean but felt its presence, the dark wooden walls and floors made this true. The ocean blanketed the earths ground in front of the house. I felt special to be there, a place I had longed for, Laguna Beach.  Incubus melted my insides into a blissful trance. I was glad she had an album of all her favorite songs by them, songs I had never heard of.  I had just met her that night and already could call her a friend. “Love Hurts” by Incubus I remembered the most. The chorus slowed down time, my body and joints took time to move, my mind taken a long a lovely trip. The sound of the words sent a haunting chill throughout my body. We all relaxed on the couches surrounding the open living room all feeling the same thing, the fire holding our presence together.

            I shut the door to my room, sit on my bed, laptop on lap, and headphones snug over both ears. I immerse myself within the discography of Incubus. I want the songs I could listen to on repeat; I want songs that would get me excited; I want songs that I could imagine my life as something extraordinary by the click of the sideward triangle. I hunt; I download 146 items, their every album, their every song. I research listener’s opinions; I trust some, others I don’t. I find every song I had loved from that night. I sit on my bed listening to my favorite songs, nostalgic of my past week in California.

           

            A stack of records was set down upon the floor of my apartment. He would let us take care of them for a while. I never gave old music a chance, The Beatles my only exception. He listened to a lot of older music, his large collection of records proved this. I sat on my green couch with the stack on my lap. I flipped through, my fingertips feeling the slim vintage cardboard, my eyes noticing all the edges decaying to white. The Doors, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, The Rolling Stones. These bands I wanted to know.

            The white moon hovers in the clear black sky, leaving a lite trail inside our dark apartment. I reach my hand over towards the window to place the needle on the groove of “Physical Graffiti” by Led Zeppelin. I know the first song and the next; I know all of the songs. I have listened to this record a lot since I discovered it. We play records when we come home late in the night.

           

            I sat on Jarret’s futon while he played songs he liked. His sister was away in college. He loved Death Cab for Cutie, Coldplay, and Jacks Mannequin. I would go home, shut my door, and listen to them. I had never heard music like this before. This took my ears a while to understand, some sound taking multiples listens to grow into. Jarret’s sister would visit home sometimes. She would listen to music with him.  A chain reaction occurred of music. Cori, Jarret, Doug. This is where my journey began.

            The white wooden chair is stiff, but I feel comfortable. I am overwhelmed by nature, the beauty of the calm blue sea, the yellow sun and the clear blue skies. A couple stands underneath a tall white gazebo holding each other’s hands, their eyes filled with love as they stare at one another.  The young man begins to play a song on his acoustic guitar. I knew this song, and was happy Cori picked it for her wedding ceremony.  He plays “Yellow” by Coldplay.