College Essay

The eyes of a rattlesnake pierced into mine like green samurai swords; we were playing a gunless duel. The sun saturated the red from the stones, intensifying the battle of endurance we were both a part of. Its nostrils begin to flare like those of a Spanish bull excited by the sight of a toreador and the shamanistic rattle of its scaly tail flowed into my ears in a single crisp note of warning………………………………
I was on the track, it was crimson like the sun drenched sand in the desert but clashed against the green astro turf on the football field. I was staring into the eyes of my coach who showed no compassion for our nauseated, purple swelled, sun scratched, anger flowing faces. This was just a psychological game of endurance. Eventually I would learn to be grateful for the challenge. I would become grateful for the many times he would scream at us, twist our perceptions of how far our mental and physical capabilities would take us and I found that my capabilities were capable of exceeding my own expectations.………………………..
I walked away towards the other side of the trail and saw a mound of clay blooming from in between the flat surface of a boulder and Cholla cactus. Fire ants sprouted from the hole in the mound, they were packed in neat military lines as I imagined they marched to the tune of “God Save The Queen”. Vulture feather quills flying in the wind seemed to mistake the fire ants for ink. I noticed, there were a few stray rebel ants that created what appeared to be scribbles and doodles of someone with writer’s block. ………………………………………
I was writing a poem using a red ballpoint pen in my creative writing class. I have a habit of using red pens on occasion when teachers don’t collect the work. The ink always reminded me of a deformed army of fire ants once the ink sank onto the piece of paper. The red grew larger and thicker in form with every movement to finally create a letter, a word, a sentence, and eventually a poem. When I wrote I indulged in every letter and made an attempt to embody it into a fire ant. Writing poetry and fiction is something that I love to do. I always hope that each letter I write stings the paper like a fire ant ……………………………………
The saguaro alongside the mound of ants stood with the graceful silhouette of an outstretched dancer; its spine was straight perfection like that of my dance teacher. Flowers blossomed from the tips of its green hands. It bathed in the setting shadow of the sun, as if it was icing its sore body from the harsh day of perfect posture in the heat. The sun-bronzed moon transformed the saguaro into a set of golden tubes. The prickly instrument appeared to be playing the mysterious jazz of coyote howls to the vibrating beats of snake rattles streaming across the ground………………………..
My saxophone dripped of evaporating Moon Rivers, Charades, Blueberry Hills, and of Breakfast at Tiffany’s. It reflected its golden self against the moon in the window. The jazzy melody I poured into it with my breath went smoothly with the beat of snake rattles I imagined I felt against the carpet. The melody oozed out in the form of a desert sand storm. My saxophone taught me how to dream, it taught me how to crush my worries, and it taught me how to listen to things I didn’t necessarily hear before. …………………………..
I learned that the desert creates a psychological setting for a dreamer just as much as it can transform into a mentor, a writer, a dancer and a musical instrument in itself.