sec 2.

This one I wasn't too stoked on. I feel like it really limited me. Nils gave us 4 different scenarios and asked us to expound on them for ten minutes. I got so bummed out I didn't even do the fourth... Oops. I felt really blocked and uninspired.

Scenario 1
It's late. You're out walking in a quiet neighborhood. You're worried, looking for something. There's a house in front of you. A door opens, two people come out...


(Let yourself feel the situation, see the house, see the people, jot down your associations. Who are they? Who are you? What do they look like, what are they wearing? Are you nervous? Curious? Do they see you? Help you? Hurt you? What happens next?)

The door opens and lets out a stream of golden light, along with the jingle of cheerful laughter and all-around merrymaking. The couple seem drunk, or at least a little tipsy, and are leaning into each other as they make their way to the sidewalk. I slow my steps so as not to come in contact with them. I’m afraid their jubilance may rub off on me and the cold night and harsh wind have already taken hold. There’s snow on the ground, and empty, sparse branches hang from the trees. My breath makes icy puffs as I breathe. I’m in a very residential neighborhood, tony, even. Brick houses with white pillars and dense hedges line the street, and the rows of cars parked on either side make the street narrow and almost claustrophobic.
The couple has found their way to their car and the man is opening her door for her. She’s wrapped in a camel-colored shawl, tiptoeing in black stilettos, small but brilliant diamonds glinting from her ears. She smiles big and wide and her laughter fills the otherwise empty air. I want to be her. I want to be happy and carefree and in love. Instead, I hang back and watch. If I can watch for long enough, maybe I’ll be able to approximate her life, her attitude, her laughter.

Scenario 2
You're alone in your apartment. You're angry, upset about something. You hear a sound at the front door. You go to it, open it. There's a box on the doorstep. You lift it up, open it...


(Who are you? Why are you alone? Why so angry? Do you open the door slowly, quickly? What's in the box? What happens next?)

The conversation hadn’t gone the way I’d wanted it to. I wanted to scream and complain, but instead I stayed calm and mellow and let her speak her mind; let her win. Again. This is the way it goes.
My throat is starting to close up again. I carry my stress in my throat, and when I get angry, so exceptionally angry that I can’t even speak, I also start to lose the ability to breathe. I want to throw my phone against the wall, my brand new $300 phone. I want to throw something. I want to break something. I want to cut something. The pain is so sharp and so clear, it allows me to focus on nothing more than the simplicity of it. My kitchen knives are too dull, though, and I end up with bright red scratches instead of clean incisions.
I hear the knocker on my front door shifting, ever so quietly. If I’d been listening to music or watching TV, I wouldn’t have even heard it, but I’ve been sitting here, quiet in my anger, and so I catch the soft touch of metal knob to metal plate. I walk over to the door and look out the peephole, but there’s no one out there. I hear the door to the stairwell latch closed and the steady, rumbling rhythm of someone running down the stairs. I open the door to try to catch them, and literally stumble over a bright red toolbox left in front of my door. It’s full of something heavy, and I can barely move it. I push it into the living room without opening it, and can hear metal pieces rattling around inside.

Scenario 3
You've been out drinking, celebrating something with your buddies. This guy you don't know very well says, hey, let's do something crazy. You laugh, get in his car...


(What's the occasion? Why do you get in? What do you see, hear, smell? What happens next?)

We’d been out since happy hour. Jennifer had gotten the job she’d been interviewing for and we’d been celebrating with Black Velvets. My tongue was fuzzy with champagne sweetness and it was time to switch to whiskey. The man who sidled up to me at the bar as I ordered our round seemed charming enough, so I let him pay for our drinks. He, in turn, followed me back to the booth. He leaned in closely when he talked, enveloping me in a heady cloud of tequila-tinted breath, cigarette smoke, and a faint, musky cologne. There were tiny beads of sweat on his forehead, which only added to his intensity. “Let’s do something crazy,” he said under his breath so no one else can hear.
I stood up immediately and announced my departure. He grabbed my hand and lead me up the stairs to the exit. This was nothing new for me. Strangers intoxicate me: the excitement and awkwardness, bolstered by alcohol, fuels the part of me that otherwise hovers below the surface. I become fearless and invincible and almost otherwordly.