It's about time I finished this-
I am passionate.
Network's Howard Beale was passionate about the depreciation of society through mass media, but not me. That's not to say I don't care about such things - about the ever-waning minds of reputable, fashionable and oh-so-venerable people- I do, but that's not the point. My passions (and there are many) reside elsewhere.
Given the nature of my college outlook and intentions, you might be surprised to read that film is not my passion. Neither is acting. Not even writing.
As I said, my passions reside elsewhere, like in apple crepes, for example.
“A crepe is made with love,” my mother always said, as mothers always do. Crepes are very delicate foods, not only in their consistency but in the difficulty of making them truly delicious. Details must be accounted for, and the strictest attention must be paid to every ingredient and each step of their preparation (we took our guidance from a 1980s Betty Crocker cookbook) or they will simply fall lifelessly apart. To tell you the truth, I am describing a painstaking and frustrating process that brings many a family to madness, but our plates were graced every holiday (some birthdays included) with lush fruits and tender crepes. My parents never gave up, for they shared the same qualities that I find in myself: ambition in passion, passion through production.
On crepe days, my mother and father rose early and reported to their respective positions in the kitchen: mom at the stove - coring, peeling, and baking the apples for the filling, and dad whisking and pouring the batter. Over the years, the whole process has become a family routine, with children waking to the surprisingly bitter, yet wonderfully-familiar, smell wafting through the house. Gradually, I learned and I progressed in the art, slowly improving with each and every crepe - just as any ambition progresses with effort and the passing of time - from wish to accomplishment.
Then it was time to eat.
But crepes at the Wiedeman home aren't just crepes, just as anything you love and put your heart into isn't just that. To my brother, the oldest, they were a mess, an ooze of apple and cinnamon bulging through the pancakes until they tore, splattering their contents all over his eager face. To my sister they were plain and simple; she never even put the apples in. To me, they were clean, equal, and perfectly-positioned portions on my spotless plate... unless that crepe day was different; unless I was the one waking up early, breaking out Betty Crocker, cooking and fashioning the morning feast for the rest of my family; unless I stood at the counter, my arms coated in moist batter and my hair matted with misplaced apple goo; unless my hands formed the fragile shapes and placed each before my excited family. That changed everything. For me anything I make with my hands, with my mind and with my will, is special. Those crepes were special because I put my heart into them, just the way Howard Beale puts his heart into his words and just the way I put my heart into something else: my films.
My experience with film has oddly enough been similar to my experience with crepes. Over time, I have developed a love for both, especially in their creation. It's when I can call what I have made 'my own' that I am truly proud; truly happy. The same way I love the sweet, warm taste of apple crepes, I love the essence of a good movie. But only when I am behind the camera, or move the pen across the page, do they really touch me; when I know I love what I am doing.
Yet my passion is not film.
It's capturing the touch of emotion through movement - the harrowing swing of a bloody ax or the twitch of an eye - and a lens. My passion isn't writing, it's breathing life into my own skewed perception of the world around me; giving my own beating heart to Ben Childs or Felicia, my own separate beings. It isn't acting, it's transforming myself into the quizzical, riotous or melancholy faces of emotion. My passion is not my success, my success is living my passion. That is why I say no, I'm not here to make movies, to write scripts or to read lines. I'm here to enthrall you, entertain you, sicken you, strengthen you, and impact you - and I will not give up until I have done so with everything I create, every time. And at the end, I want you to get up, turn around, and walk back towards reality, only to discover that your entire world has changed because you are a changed person, from the pores of your skin right to the very depths of your soul. If that can't happen, so help me, I'm not passionate in the least because I'm mad as hell and I am NOT going to take this anymore.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Irony of Life
Here's something I wrote about two years ago. I'd definitely like to make it into a movie. Maybe I'll ask Dominique to borrow her dad and his car one day...
Two teenagers sat in the back of the car, both in deep thought. The boy stared out the right window while the girl's gaze traveled out of the left. Minutes passed without a word or blink. Sound was a stranger to everything except the gulls overhead and the nearby crashing waves.
Finally the boy spoke: "Think we've wasted any part of our lives?"
The girl turned to make contact with him.
"Yeah, some." she said.
"Yeah, me too. Like all those hours spend playing video games and stuff- I could've been studying or... I don't know, writing a book."
"I started writing a book."
"Why didn't you finish it?"
"Got bored of it. Became more interested in a guy."
"Yeah, girls probably took up a big part of my life. I don't think any of them were even worth it."
There was a long pause and the girl turned once again towards the window. The boy stumbled for words.
"I kind of regret not paying attention to my dog. He died like a year ago," he said. She turned back to him.
"I never had a dog. All the pets we had died in like a month. Fish, gerbils, turtles... all of them. Maybe we were just bad pet owners."
"Nah, I'm sure it wasn't you. Pets like that never live long."
"We went through nine gerbils in two years..." she replied flatly. He raised his eyebrows and they both laughed.
"Wow, we have kind of screwed up a lot. I wish I could go back to parts, you know?"
"Yeah..."
"Hey, I know. Why don't we make a pact? From now on we're going to pay more attention to life; really live it. Time just goes by too quickly to always walk with your head down. We have our whole lives ahead of us, and we only have one shot, so let's make it a good one. What do you say?" He stretched a hand out to the girl. She shook it and smiled.
"Here's to life."
Just then the door opened. A man in uniform took his seat behind the wheel. The girl sat up to talk to him.
"So where are we going?" she asked, her fingers poking through the metal caging.
"Prison of course, now keep it down back there," spoke the cop authoritatively.
They did as they were told, and the car took off down the road...
Two teenagers sat in the back of the car, both in deep thought. The boy stared out the right window while the girl's gaze traveled out of the left. Minutes passed without a word or blink. Sound was a stranger to everything except the gulls overhead and the nearby crashing waves.
Finally the boy spoke: "Think we've wasted any part of our lives?"
The girl turned to make contact with him.
"Yeah, some." she said.
"Yeah, me too. Like all those hours spend playing video games and stuff- I could've been studying or... I don't know, writing a book."
"I started writing a book."
"Why didn't you finish it?"
"Got bored of it. Became more interested in a guy."
"Yeah, girls probably took up a big part of my life. I don't think any of them were even worth it."
There was a long pause and the girl turned once again towards the window. The boy stumbled for words.
"I kind of regret not paying attention to my dog. He died like a year ago," he said. She turned back to him.
"I never had a dog. All the pets we had died in like a month. Fish, gerbils, turtles... all of them. Maybe we were just bad pet owners."
"Nah, I'm sure it wasn't you. Pets like that never live long."
"We went through nine gerbils in two years..." she replied flatly. He raised his eyebrows and they both laughed.
"Wow, we have kind of screwed up a lot. I wish I could go back to parts, you know?"
"Yeah..."
"Hey, I know. Why don't we make a pact? From now on we're going to pay more attention to life; really live it. Time just goes by too quickly to always walk with your head down. We have our whole lives ahead of us, and we only have one shot, so let's make it a good one. What do you say?" He stretched a hand out to the girl. She shook it and smiled.
"Here's to life."
Just then the door opened. A man in uniform took his seat behind the wheel. The girl sat up to talk to him.
"So where are we going?" she asked, her fingers poking through the metal caging.
"Prison of course, now keep it down back there," spoke the cop authoritatively.
They did as they were told, and the car took off down the road...
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Here's a little diddy I wrote just for you!!!!:
As we come to a conclusion of the first decade of the twenty-first century, it seems that all these new gadgets, cell phones, laptops, iPods, etc… have hindered peoples ability to read a book. For this reason, here is a fool-proof process to find a book that is right for you and read it!
First, you must find a book to read. There are two options, they have both been heavily disputed and the outcome is what you would expect, both are good. The first way is to do research on the internet before you go to your local library or book store. This way can save a lot of time and is sometimes cost-efficient as you can compare prices of different stores. To find a book this way you can choose to search different genre’s and read descriptions of books until you find one that is appealing, or you can search authors you’ve heard of; note that this is only for those people who know of a specific book or author that they want to read. The second option is kind of a wild card. This involves going to the book store or library and schmoozing up and down the aisles until you find one that catches your eye. This way can be fun, but a warning, there are tons of books, so once you find about four or five that seem interesting quit, or else you’ll end up buying the whole store out. Some tips for this option, I would recommend looking at the best-seller section, clearance section, and fiction sections. Buying books from the best-sellers list is never a bad choice, and it may help you find an author you like, so you can try option one the next time. Another tip is to not always judge a book by its cover; while you may find ones that look cool be sure to read the brief overview located on the back or inside cover to make sure the book is right for you. One more precaution for this option, do not be afraid by the multitude of books that are available, start small (such as the front displays) and work your way up to the larger sections of books.
Next, you must read the book. While part once may seem fun, the real adventure lies between the front and back cover. For those not acquainted with this form of entertainment, the idea is to open the front cover until you see a page denoted Chapter 1, Introduction, or some sort of prologue. Now you read from left to right (left page, then right page) and run your eyes over each word. The idea is not to fly through these pages, but to comprehend and interpret their meanings. Relaxing your eyes and glancing is NOT recommended because you will lose some of the value stated in the sentence above. Note that you may feel some twinge of emotions as you read a book; it is not something you ate (well most likely not something you ate) and you may be empathizing or some sort of ‘–pathizing’ by the end. You will be shocked at how much fun it can be! Now go out there and buy some books!!
Please disregard spelling and grammar mistakes
As we come to a conclusion of the first decade of the twenty-first century, it seems that all these new gadgets, cell phones, laptops, iPods, etc… have hindered peoples ability to read a book. For this reason, here is a fool-proof process to find a book that is right for you and read it!
First, you must find a book to read. There are two options, they have both been heavily disputed and the outcome is what you would expect, both are good. The first way is to do research on the internet before you go to your local library or book store. This way can save a lot of time and is sometimes cost-efficient as you can compare prices of different stores. To find a book this way you can choose to search different genre’s and read descriptions of books until you find one that is appealing, or you can search authors you’ve heard of; note that this is only for those people who know of a specific book or author that they want to read. The second option is kind of a wild card. This involves going to the book store or library and schmoozing up and down the aisles until you find one that catches your eye. This way can be fun, but a warning, there are tons of books, so once you find about four or five that seem interesting quit, or else you’ll end up buying the whole store out. Some tips for this option, I would recommend looking at the best-seller section, clearance section, and fiction sections. Buying books from the best-sellers list is never a bad choice, and it may help you find an author you like, so you can try option one the next time. Another tip is to not always judge a book by its cover; while you may find ones that look cool be sure to read the brief overview located on the back or inside cover to make sure the book is right for you. One more precaution for this option, do not be afraid by the multitude of books that are available, start small (such as the front displays) and work your way up to the larger sections of books.
Next, you must read the book. While part once may seem fun, the real adventure lies between the front and back cover. For those not acquainted with this form of entertainment, the idea is to open the front cover until you see a page denoted Chapter 1, Introduction, or some sort of prologue. Now you read from left to right (left page, then right page) and run your eyes over each word. The idea is not to fly through these pages, but to comprehend and interpret their meanings. Relaxing your eyes and glancing is NOT recommended because you will lose some of the value stated in the sentence above. Note that you may feel some twinge of emotions as you read a book; it is not something you ate (well most likely not something you ate) and you may be empathizing or some sort of ‘–pathizing’ by the end. You will be shocked at how much fun it can be! Now go out there and buy some books!!
Please disregard spelling and grammar mistakes
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Amber's Autumn Piece
This was the first piece I wrote, a narration of autumn, before we were told it wasn't supposed to be a narration, but enjoy!
I button the very top of my black pea coat as I continue walking down the back road to my house. With my head bowed towards the ground and hands back in my pockets, I shrug my shoulders in hopes to shield my neck from the soft chill of the wind. When I realize my shoe feels a bit loose, I bend down to tie it. The wind gradually picks up allowing my hair to sway in front of my face. I pull the dancing strands clear of my eyes revealing the red leaf caught under my right shoe. It looks frightened, like a mouse trembling under the paw of a cat. Standing up straight again, I allow it to escape. The wind continues to move through my hair and the trees on both sides of me. My eyes follow the leaf, moving up and down, twisting and somersaulting through the air. Mother Nature’s very own gymnast, I think to myself. When the red leaf reaches the other side of the road I can no longer see it among the collage of red, orange, yellow, and brown leaves. I take a deep breath and allow the cool air to cleanse my nose and lungs. The wind dies down and I kick the small pile of leaves lying next to me off the side of the road. I hoped that they would perform for me just like the red leaf had. But my intentions fail and the frozen ground arrests my bliss. My only notion left? These leaves forever remain on the floor. And with that I slay any hint of theatrics remaining. I shake my head in utter disappointment. No true loveliness can come about this season. Because no matter how gorgeously vibrant the red leaf of the oak tree, no matter if that oak leaf danced for you, the return of fall, the loss of color, means loss of chlorophyll, the loss of food, and ultimately, the loss of life. A shiver runs through my spine. Looking away from the pile of leaves on the floor, the purple sky warns me of the time. I check my phone. Five O’clock. I hurriedly continued my walk home, hoping that I might make it in time before the sky stretched to black and trapped me in despair.
I button the very top of my black pea coat as I continue walking down the back road to my house. With my head bowed towards the ground and hands back in my pockets, I shrug my shoulders in hopes to shield my neck from the soft chill of the wind. When I realize my shoe feels a bit loose, I bend down to tie it. The wind gradually picks up allowing my hair to sway in front of my face. I pull the dancing strands clear of my eyes revealing the red leaf caught under my right shoe. It looks frightened, like a mouse trembling under the paw of a cat. Standing up straight again, I allow it to escape. The wind continues to move through my hair and the trees on both sides of me. My eyes follow the leaf, moving up and down, twisting and somersaulting through the air. Mother Nature’s very own gymnast, I think to myself. When the red leaf reaches the other side of the road I can no longer see it among the collage of red, orange, yellow, and brown leaves. I take a deep breath and allow the cool air to cleanse my nose and lungs. The wind dies down and I kick the small pile of leaves lying next to me off the side of the road. I hoped that they would perform for me just like the red leaf had. But my intentions fail and the frozen ground arrests my bliss. My only notion left? These leaves forever remain on the floor. And with that I slay any hint of theatrics remaining. I shake my head in utter disappointment. No true loveliness can come about this season. Because no matter how gorgeously vibrant the red leaf of the oak tree, no matter if that oak leaf danced for you, the return of fall, the loss of color, means loss of chlorophyll, the loss of food, and ultimately, the loss of life. A shiver runs through my spine. Looking away from the pile of leaves on the floor, the purple sky warns me of the time. I check my phone. Five O’clock. I hurriedly continued my walk home, hoping that I might make it in time before the sky stretched to black and trapped me in despair.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Autumn II
Hurray college english! This really reads like prose, not a story.
Fallen amber crushed beneath running feet, but it forgives. Minds awaken themselves for the coming renewal and they take an anxious breath. Children - us too - quiet themselves just before dusk as the sun glares peacefully beneath clear eyes. Life written in the present tense lives for the future.
We all value our own achievements most now, our determination ready to leap before time runs out and sleep takes over. Second chances begin here, each year, not to be wasted - although naturally some do die with the coming of snow, or just the darkening sense of such.
So we gaze around beautiful, deserted playgrounds.
Even the tourists hush between the long rows of fruited wood, their own eager smiles too pure to speak out. Those same fruits embrace our kitchens to lend us flavor for our tongues and our happy noses. Pleasant, heated aromas sneak about from timid grates and candles forgotten amidst the plainer seasons and a chair - our chair - rocks gently to the winds smooth, simple rhythm.
So we find comfort in a time of dying.
Quick car rides move in slow motion, though we go without spinning wheels. Sunrises last forever. What number of oppurtunities must dart past, alive and vivid to our suddenly seeing senses that we accept the passing of so many? Only joyous faces grip us, friendly hands throw our bodies and a calming October mist spits our way; a smile for every leaf lost, a smirk for a growing challenge on cool ground, next to the drive.
So we dream, too much good and too much undertaken.
Pile it up, pile it up, we've become invincible in our happiness, but still we pursue real goals.
Legs carry us, legs enthrall us; "drunk with love" never appears more literal. Suddenly conversation sparks admiration, hopeful hearts beating with childish excitement in a chest full of memories. Infatutation runs wild, but only for now. Soon a shuttering silence freezes over loving souls, closing out our venerable, open pride. Change stills and that soothing quiet hardens into a veil to protect our worrisome facades.
So we run, drenched in the crisp colors, atop fallen, forgiving amber. I present to you, autumn.
Fallen amber crushed beneath running feet, but it forgives. Minds awaken themselves for the coming renewal and they take an anxious breath. Children - us too - quiet themselves just before dusk as the sun glares peacefully beneath clear eyes. Life written in the present tense lives for the future.
We all value our own achievements most now, our determination ready to leap before time runs out and sleep takes over. Second chances begin here, each year, not to be wasted - although naturally some do die with the coming of snow, or just the darkening sense of such.
So we gaze around beautiful, deserted playgrounds.
Even the tourists hush between the long rows of fruited wood, their own eager smiles too pure to speak out. Those same fruits embrace our kitchens to lend us flavor for our tongues and our happy noses. Pleasant, heated aromas sneak about from timid grates and candles forgotten amidst the plainer seasons and a chair - our chair - rocks gently to the winds smooth, simple rhythm.
So we find comfort in a time of dying.
Quick car rides move in slow motion, though we go without spinning wheels. Sunrises last forever. What number of oppurtunities must dart past, alive and vivid to our suddenly seeing senses that we accept the passing of so many? Only joyous faces grip us, friendly hands throw our bodies and a calming October mist spits our way; a smile for every leaf lost, a smirk for a growing challenge on cool ground, next to the drive.
So we dream, too much good and too much undertaken.
Pile it up, pile it up, we've become invincible in our happiness, but still we pursue real goals.
Legs carry us, legs enthrall us; "drunk with love" never appears more literal. Suddenly conversation sparks admiration, hopeful hearts beating with childish excitement in a chest full of memories. Infatutation runs wild, but only for now. Soon a shuttering silence freezes over loving souls, closing out our venerable, open pride. Change stills and that soothing quiet hardens into a veil to protect our worrisome facades.
So we run, drenched in the crisp colors, atop fallen, forgiving amber. I present to you, autumn.
Autumn
I didn't feel like writing this for college english because I thought it was stupid and a waste of time, so I made it depressing!!:
The wind hits my face as I stare out at the colorful trees. Finally, I can sleep comfortably with my windows cracked, no more relying on the air conditioning. The wind picks up and the trees sway under the pressure of the wind, and after so much bending the leaves fly off their thin branches, cluttering the ground. In these large fields the colors make a collage of false inner-meaning (from examples I’ve heard the meaning is only as profound as the person’s capacity for pseudo-meaning). ‘Leafers’ make the trek up to admire this short-lived foliage, and see Hudson Valley’s true (and really only) beauty. Wildlife is scarce except for the squirrels that scamper through the thick layers of leaves looking for the ‘sacred’ acorns, never satisfied, always more to be found.
Journeying up to the tree that a squirrel is situated under I see the life fading out of it. It bared its fruit, and the lively green of the leaves, from the chlorophyll begins to wane. The fruit surrounding this suffering tree begins to rot, not accomplishing their evolutionary goal; to penetrate the soil and germinate. For the apples that are luckier and picked, they become the chief fruit staple in the homes across the area, crisp and sweat, the best around.
Soon this beautiful landscape will seem barren, nothing but the brown of the bark under a white cover of snow. The wildlife will take shelter and the scene will look dead. But, alas, these to fleeting weeks of prismatic color betray the true meaning of this season, autumn. For the tree’s, time slows as it sheds its life, a decrepit frame of a once formidable, lively tree. Just as the leaves fall, summer leaves our homes and our mindset, as we brace for yet another satisfyingly long winter.
The wind hits my face as I stare out at the colorful trees. Finally, I can sleep comfortably with my windows cracked, no more relying on the air conditioning. The wind picks up and the trees sway under the pressure of the wind, and after so much bending the leaves fly off their thin branches, cluttering the ground. In these large fields the colors make a collage of false inner-meaning (from examples I’ve heard the meaning is only as profound as the person’s capacity for pseudo-meaning). ‘Leafers’ make the trek up to admire this short-lived foliage, and see Hudson Valley’s true (and really only) beauty. Wildlife is scarce except for the squirrels that scamper through the thick layers of leaves looking for the ‘sacred’ acorns, never satisfied, always more to be found.
Journeying up to the tree that a squirrel is situated under I see the life fading out of it. It bared its fruit, and the lively green of the leaves, from the chlorophyll begins to wane. The fruit surrounding this suffering tree begins to rot, not accomplishing their evolutionary goal; to penetrate the soil and germinate. For the apples that are luckier and picked, they become the chief fruit staple in the homes across the area, crisp and sweat, the best around.
Soon this beautiful landscape will seem barren, nothing but the brown of the bark under a white cover of snow. The wildlife will take shelter and the scene will look dead. But, alas, these to fleeting weeks of prismatic color betray the true meaning of this season, autumn. For the tree’s, time slows as it sheds its life, a decrepit frame of a once formidable, lively tree. Just as the leaves fall, summer leaves our homes and our mindset, as we brace for yet another satisfyingly long winter.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
R.I.P. January 20th, 2009
This is my scary story for Halloween =O
I awoke in darkness, a strange euphoria of murky chills engulfing all of my senses until a refreshing wave of numbness took control of my body. My wrists twinged with pain and my elbows cried out in extreme discomfort as they were, locked together above my tender head. Touches of rusted metal seemed frozen against my joints, clutching me to the wall and I noticed my bare, crusted feet standing in a shallow pool of dampness.
My eyes strained in the weak light and saw a figure through the gray haze. He was hunched over a small, broken table across the room beside the decaying wax of a candle with a short future, his smooth head creating a thin outline against the aged stone backdrop to which he faced.
“Something beautiful is about to happen,” he spoke in a strangely recognizable tone. As he turned to face me I made out his immaculate, well-kept and most out of place suit jacket, seemingly glistening in the faint glimmer of the flame. The dark skin of his hands seemed cool and refreshed as his limber fingers rearranged his silk tie.
“Aren't you excited?” he asked. Suddenly I gasped as a horrifying sense of recognition clenched my sickened stomach. He took another step towards my defenseless, hanging face and smiled, that charismatic, friendly, oh-so-reassuring smile we all loved so much. But not me, I now understood.
“I'm going to bring this world into a new era, and reinvent the term freedom,” he enunciated the final word. “Oh there will be change alright,” he paused, “unless you, and only you, say otherwise.”
My mind burned to say “NO, NOT THIS CHANGE,” but as I moved to speak, my torn, bloodied mouth couldn't. Something was missing.
“That's what I thought,” he grinned, unveiling a small, red piece of flesh from his hand to me. With that he walked away in a fit of laughter, leaving me wide-eyed, helpless and struggling until I felt myself go limp into darkness, fading away with the dying light of the candle.
I awoke in darkness, a strange euphoria of murky chills engulfing all of my senses until a refreshing wave of numbness took control of my body. My wrists twinged with pain and my elbows cried out in extreme discomfort as they were, locked together above my tender head. Touches of rusted metal seemed frozen against my joints, clutching me to the wall and I noticed my bare, crusted feet standing in a shallow pool of dampness.
My eyes strained in the weak light and saw a figure through the gray haze. He was hunched over a small, broken table across the room beside the decaying wax of a candle with a short future, his smooth head creating a thin outline against the aged stone backdrop to which he faced.
“Something beautiful is about to happen,” he spoke in a strangely recognizable tone. As he turned to face me I made out his immaculate, well-kept and most out of place suit jacket, seemingly glistening in the faint glimmer of the flame. The dark skin of his hands seemed cool and refreshed as his limber fingers rearranged his silk tie.
“Aren't you excited?” he asked. Suddenly I gasped as a horrifying sense of recognition clenched my sickened stomach. He took another step towards my defenseless, hanging face and smiled, that charismatic, friendly, oh-so-reassuring smile we all loved so much. But not me, I now understood.
“I'm going to bring this world into a new era, and reinvent the term freedom,” he enunciated the final word. “Oh there will be change alright,” he paused, “unless you, and only you, say otherwise.”
My mind burned to say “NO, NOT THIS CHANGE,” but as I moved to speak, my torn, bloodied mouth couldn't. Something was missing.
“That's what I thought,” he grinned, unveiling a small, red piece of flesh from his hand to me. With that he walked away in a fit of laughter, leaving me wide-eyed, helpless and struggling until I felt myself go limp into darkness, fading away with the dying light of the candle.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
This Was All I Had
Recent events in my life
Have made me cherich people more
While I miss out of their lives
Lives I wish I'd known more
Have made me cherich people more
While I miss out of their lives
Lives I wish I'd known more
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
The Deaths of Interest
I... have been gifted with a curse. Like anybody I've met many interesting people in my life, but unlike everyone I know when those people will die. A few days before it happens I get an epiphany; a vision. Even if I haven't met this person more then once, many years ago, and even if I never knew their name, I have known or will someday know the time of their death.
Naturally at first I thought I was crazy. Perhaps this was a sign of schizophrenia. I had all intentions of going to a doctor but before I could I began to remember. I knew these people, and I became fascinated.
And so I tried to reach them, find these people so I could tell them just what was going to happen, and when. Unfortunately most of the time all I have is a face and a story. Then I tried to use this power for memorium, as a way to remember the conversations I enjoyed and learned from, but lately all I am is afraid.
I am afraid for the old oil tycoon who spent his affluent retirement traveling the globe.
I am afraid for the young boy I saw drawing himself as a spaceman on the moon beside two smiling parents.
I am afraid for those two longtime friends who saw their children head off to India to spend their lives together, a couple in marriage.
I am afraid for the man who brought life into a small bubble with a single strand of hair and I'm afraid for all the great artists who have inspired me. But everything is alright, because of one thought; that someone out there is afraid for me because they too will know the day I die.
Naturally at first I thought I was crazy. Perhaps this was a sign of schizophrenia. I had all intentions of going to a doctor but before I could I began to remember. I knew these people, and I became fascinated.
And so I tried to reach them, find these people so I could tell them just what was going to happen, and when. Unfortunately most of the time all I have is a face and a story. Then I tried to use this power for memorium, as a way to remember the conversations I enjoyed and learned from, but lately all I am is afraid.
I am afraid for the old oil tycoon who spent his affluent retirement traveling the globe.
I am afraid for the young boy I saw drawing himself as a spaceman on the moon beside two smiling parents.
I am afraid for those two longtime friends who saw their children head off to India to spend their lives together, a couple in marriage.
I am afraid for the man who brought life into a small bubble with a single strand of hair and I'm afraid for all the great artists who have inspired me. But everything is alright, because of one thought; that someone out there is afraid for me because they too will know the day I die.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Lakes, Serial Killers and a Fresh Case of Bordem
I'm back at our lake house upstate (or should I say my parents', considering I come up here about two weeks out of the year while they're up every other weekend), a small cottage-type home about a quarter mile from the water. Already, as expected, family bonding is being overtaken by family controversy and high tensions, and I'm coming to the conclusion there is absolutely nothing I want to do in the town of Schroon Lake.
People in little hamlets (particularly isolated ones or ones near/in appealing vacation spots) are a completely different type of people. Ever realize how small town people are super nice? But then again that's where the serial killers come from, the creepy hicks that never speak to anyone but their mother and their livestock. It seems urban areas have a ton of small crimes and rural areas have a few horrible crimes. I suppose then it's all about luck. Would you prefer to always be on your guard for pickpockets but know your self is safe or go with the nice crime free neighbors who, in rare situations, might crush your brains with a meat cleaver and stuff you in their oddly spacious yet always available ice chest? About that, the butchers (that being the Killer's real occupation not a title) never have animal meat hanging around. Do they only kill/eat/sell human flesh their whole careers or just reserve the murder of stupid, yet beautiful teenagers for a time in which the food is just running scarce?
Regardless I'm trying my best to keep occupied through the usual activities like the computer, guitar and some new books, and to avoid hanging from a dirty meat hook at any time during this vacation. But I have made a new, startling discovery that when I listen to Amy Whinehouse I write really witty, sophisticated dialogues between the rich at house parties. It could be a part of the expatriate authors rubbing off on me I'm having to read so much of lately.
People in little hamlets (particularly isolated ones or ones near/in appealing vacation spots) are a completely different type of people. Ever realize how small town people are super nice? But then again that's where the serial killers come from, the creepy hicks that never speak to anyone but their mother and their livestock. It seems urban areas have a ton of small crimes and rural areas have a few horrible crimes. I suppose then it's all about luck. Would you prefer to always be on your guard for pickpockets but know your self is safe or go with the nice crime free neighbors who, in rare situations, might crush your brains with a meat cleaver and stuff you in their oddly spacious yet always available ice chest? About that, the butchers (that being the Killer's real occupation not a title) never have animal meat hanging around. Do they only kill/eat/sell human flesh their whole careers or just reserve the murder of stupid, yet beautiful teenagers for a time in which the food is just running scarce?
Regardless I'm trying my best to keep occupied through the usual activities like the computer, guitar and some new books, and to avoid hanging from a dirty meat hook at any time during this vacation. But I have made a new, startling discovery that when I listen to Amy Whinehouse I write really witty, sophisticated dialogues between the rich at house parties. It could be a part of the expatriate authors rubbing off on me I'm having to read so much of lately.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
rant...sorta... i guess... maybe =]
Even though the families during the Great Depression couldn’t afford to put food on the table, they would spend their last dime on going to the movies. People go to the movies to be entertained. There are many forms of entertainment, but don’t be fooled because movies are the greatest form of entertainment. I enjoy watching movies.
I have been watching movies since I was about five years old. I started with the Disney classics like Cinderella, Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, Peter Pan, Robin Hood, and Aladdin. As I got older I discovered new genres of movies. I currently watch animation, comedy, action, and comic book based films, just to name a few. Most recently I went to go see the action packed thriller, I am Legend featuring the talented actor/singer, Will Smith. I can’t go through the day without quoting a movie line. Friends and family can confirm this, this often happens when we sit down to eat dinner but my brothers and I find anytime to quote a movie line when the time is right. It takes me one or two times to see the movie and be able to quote it. But movies aren’t just for me there are films for everyone.
Everyone has different preferences whether it is action, comedy, animation, horror or romantic. There are so many genres of film you will be able to find one you like. This is just one reason why they are such a great way to pass time. This will also allow you to connect with the character or characters. Maybe the character’s situation is similar to something you could possibly be dealing with in your own life. Movies are sometimes based on true experiences or uncover historical events and figures. There are even movies that allow you to experience things that may not be possible or legal for you to do in reality. Watching Clive Owen and his team break in to the Manhattan bank, Denzel Washington stunned by their cleverness in the awesome film Inside Man is an amazing thriller. It will keep you on the edge of your seat. These movies have been perfected for longer then you or I have been around, for this I’m sure that they are definitely worth watching.
Movies have been around for more then 81 years, it wasn’t until 1926 a new invention was born. The first movie with sound was invented in 1926, when Warner Brothers and Western Electric, introduced a new sound-on-disc system. This invention made it possible to hear sound in the movie itself, before this people watched silent films. Movies make it possible to escape your problems as well. In the 1930’s the motion pictures were the most important form of entertainment of the Great Depression. During the Depression an average 60 million to 75 million tickets were bought each week. While the reality of the Great Depression seamed impossible to get away from, the short trip to a faraway land was the perfect thing to do.
For these reasons movies are the greatest form of entertainment. The sound, screenplay, computer graphics, acting, plot, script, setting, camera angles are all important elements that make the movie what it is when brought together in the final product. It takes a large amount of hard work and skill that is worth everyone’s appreciation.
I have been watching movies since I was about five years old. I started with the Disney classics like Cinderella, Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, Peter Pan, Robin Hood, and Aladdin. As I got older I discovered new genres of movies. I currently watch animation, comedy, action, and comic book based films, just to name a few. Most recently I went to go see the action packed thriller, I am Legend featuring the talented actor/singer, Will Smith. I can’t go through the day without quoting a movie line. Friends and family can confirm this, this often happens when we sit down to eat dinner but my brothers and I find anytime to quote a movie line when the time is right. It takes me one or two times to see the movie and be able to quote it. But movies aren’t just for me there are films for everyone.
Everyone has different preferences whether it is action, comedy, animation, horror or romantic. There are so many genres of film you will be able to find one you like. This is just one reason why they are such a great way to pass time. This will also allow you to connect with the character or characters. Maybe the character’s situation is similar to something you could possibly be dealing with in your own life. Movies are sometimes based on true experiences or uncover historical events and figures. There are even movies that allow you to experience things that may not be possible or legal for you to do in reality. Watching Clive Owen and his team break in to the Manhattan bank, Denzel Washington stunned by their cleverness in the awesome film Inside Man is an amazing thriller. It will keep you on the edge of your seat. These movies have been perfected for longer then you or I have been around, for this I’m sure that they are definitely worth watching.
Movies have been around for more then 81 years, it wasn’t until 1926 a new invention was born. The first movie with sound was invented in 1926, when Warner Brothers and Western Electric, introduced a new sound-on-disc system. This invention made it possible to hear sound in the movie itself, before this people watched silent films. Movies make it possible to escape your problems as well. In the 1930’s the motion pictures were the most important form of entertainment of the Great Depression. During the Depression an average 60 million to 75 million tickets were bought each week. While the reality of the Great Depression seamed impossible to get away from, the short trip to a faraway land was the perfect thing to do.
For these reasons movies are the greatest form of entertainment. The sound, screenplay, computer graphics, acting, plot, script, setting, camera angles are all important elements that make the movie what it is when brought together in the final product. It takes a large amount of hard work and skill that is worth everyone’s appreciation.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Loath and Love
Today is that day.
The day I leave the spiraling staircase.
The day I reach the top.
I had already been there,
Once before like many.
The rest have disappeared behind me.
And there they stand and stare
Loath and Love,
Their thoughts like sand in my lungs.
too rough to cough up.
And here I stand,
At the top of the stairs.
After all that climbing,
I wonder if my heart was always there...
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
It's So Simple
1. Ok...
2. Peanuts=good, grapes=bad therefore
Peanut butter=good, jelly=bad.
3. Peanuts grow from plants. What else grows from plants?
4. That's right, cocoa beans. So therefore since peanuts/peanut butter are good, and are also eatable plants, cocoa beans are also good (meaning chocolate is as well).
5. Now, since jelly mixed with another BAD food item (say... meatloaf) creates an even WORSE food (what one might call jellyloaf), the laws of inverses states that two GOOD items placed together create an even BETTER item (peanut butter + chocolate = Reeses = BETTER).
6. So Reeses, being amazing, are eaten by... yes, humans. Now what other animal is very closely related to the human? Yes, the pig (they can both get sunburn). Therefore, there is a strong relationship between Reeses and pigs (if searching for a shorter connection, see "pigs-eat-plants", leading you to statement 3).
7. Of course, what factor of a pig is most important to humans, therefore most closely related to Reeses? That's right, bacon.
8. Yet a clear relationship to another good food item doesn't immediately mean the initial food item (bacon) is exceptional (if you like bacon, and you are sure, proceed to statement 10).
9. This is proved through Darwin's theory of evolution, survival of the fittest. After a long period of idle use, certain body parts begin to shrink/disappear/fall off. Such appendages of the pig included: tiny third ear, extra long straight tail, dorsal fin and belly foot. All of these supplied the pig with little or no assistance in daily living, ergo their dysfunction. These were of no interest to early humans who saw no point to domesticate and raise such animals, as these parts were not particularly tasty. It wasn't until the discovery of the pig's back that we humans gained interest in the entire animal. It was savory and delicious, thus causing the pig to be chosen for neolithic life and breeding. Such a situation would not have, and still would not exist if the back (bacon part) of the pig was not delightful.
10. Therefore, bacon is GOOD
11. DISCLAIMER: Just because bacon is good, one cannot assume all other parts of the pig are as good or good at all, unless said pork is served "pulled", in which yes, assume that to be amazing.
12. Now, looking back on statement 5 and using simple logic (as I have for all previous statements) one can see that if two GOOD food items mixed together create a greater item, two EXCEPTIONAL items would create a mind blowing, out of this world taste unlike no other. Therefore the obvious solution is:
13. Bacon-wrapped Reeses.
2. Peanuts=good, grapes=bad therefore
Peanut butter=good, jelly=bad.
3. Peanuts grow from plants. What else grows from plants?
4. That's right, cocoa beans. So therefore since peanuts/peanut butter are good, and are also eatable plants, cocoa beans are also good (meaning chocolate is as well).
5. Now, since jelly mixed with another BAD food item (say... meatloaf) creates an even WORSE food (what one might call jellyloaf), the laws of inverses states that two GOOD items placed together create an even BETTER item (peanut butter + chocolate = Reeses = BETTER).
6. So Reeses, being amazing, are eaten by... yes, humans. Now what other animal is very closely related to the human? Yes, the pig (they can both get sunburn). Therefore, there is a strong relationship between Reeses and pigs (if searching for a shorter connection, see "pigs-eat-plants", leading you to statement 3).
7. Of course, what factor of a pig is most important to humans, therefore most closely related to Reeses? That's right, bacon.
8. Yet a clear relationship to another good food item doesn't immediately mean the initial food item (bacon) is exceptional (if you like bacon, and you are sure, proceed to statement 10).
9. This is proved through Darwin's theory of evolution, survival of the fittest. After a long period of idle use, certain body parts begin to shrink/disappear/fall off. Such appendages of the pig included: tiny third ear, extra long straight tail, dorsal fin and belly foot. All of these supplied the pig with little or no assistance in daily living, ergo their dysfunction. These were of no interest to early humans who saw no point to domesticate and raise such animals, as these parts were not particularly tasty. It wasn't until the discovery of the pig's back that we humans gained interest in the entire animal. It was savory and delicious, thus causing the pig to be chosen for neolithic life and breeding. Such a situation would not have, and still would not exist if the back (bacon part) of the pig was not delightful.
10. Therefore, bacon is GOOD
11. DISCLAIMER: Just because bacon is good, one cannot assume all other parts of the pig are as good or good at all, unless said pork is served "pulled", in which yes, assume that to be amazing.
12. Now, looking back on statement 5 and using simple logic (as I have for all previous statements) one can see that if two GOOD food items mixed together create a greater item, two EXCEPTIONAL items would create a mind blowing, out of this world taste unlike no other. Therefore the obvious solution is:
13. Bacon-wrapped Reeses.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Aha, The Cinema.
To him who in the love of film,
Holds communion with her easy expression.
Come forth the inquisitive minds.
Bring with you creativity and your strength,
Allow your mind to run freely.
You'll see there are endless possibilities.
Ignite the flames of your passion.
Your own unique quality for all to see.
Action, romance, comedy, fear.
Hundreds of hands and minds but only one goal.
Pull it together, edit, refine,
Come now and let us blow all their minds!
Holds communion with her easy expression.
Come forth the inquisitive minds.
Bring with you creativity and your strength,
Allow your mind to run freely.
You'll see there are endless possibilities.
Ignite the flames of your passion.
Your own unique quality for all to see.
Action, romance, comedy, fear.
Hundreds of hands and minds but only one goal.
Pull it together, edit, refine,
Come now and let us blow all their minds!
Friday, June 19, 2009
Epilogue
-This is another ending to, presumably, the same story. Maybe like the ending before that other ending. Don't expect it to make sense...
Epilogue
He stood there, alone. The city had seem to go silent in memoriam, and above the skies shone undisturbed; a gleam of blue on his face. There was no traffic on the roads or in the air, just quiet. Only the sounds of rustled wind and a crunching leaf beneath his boot spoke out into the silence. And yet he could hear voices. Voices of the men, the lost and the living all around him, as if he were back in the desert, in the fields, in the wastelands. Women cried out to him. He couldn’t tell what they were saying, but he understood. Help. Stop. Save us. Memories like these don’t fade.
Colors do though.
Green gave way to maroon and auburn, a sign of death, and rebirth. Like the colors of the unrelenting, repressive flag, which have been washed away in blood and soil. Yet while bare branches replace the cool greens, this symbol is replaced by hope.
By an idea.
A new enlightenment, reasoned thinking, thinking at all. Suddenly threatened minds felt a ping of anxiety and subtle acceptance into a society where they were no longer ignored. No longer forced to be quieted or shunned.
Eventually we would rebuild. He was sure of it. But for now the ruins remained. For now the remnants of isolation still hung in these crumbled streets beneath him. Healing takes time. But he had all the time in the world, they all did.
Ahead of him lay a clearing. A few scattered blades of grass lay strewn amidst the opening and on top of them stood a sheep. Its white coat gleamed with sunlight, something so strange to the utopian aftermath and the broken concrete. He walked towards it, possessed by its beauty, its simplicity, and the voices disappeared. The sights of the city vanished. No sound came to his ears. Everything seemed to fade around the white cloud, a symbol of good. And he kept walking.
The animal glanced up, its mouth full, and blinked. It had the eyes of a child. Big, glass pupils fixed on him and he froze. He kept his distance so as not the frighten it, but to his surprise, the sheep approached him. It trotted over the mangled urban floor and the grass began to wilt. The sun appeared to be sucking its light from the clearing and it began to take the shape of the usual lifeless city courtyard. But darkness avoided the little sheep as it strode towards him. It was spotlighted and so alive. The space between the two was evaporating and the brightness was beginning to engulf him. His complexion softened and his muscles relaxed. His eyes fell shut. He opened his mouth to inhale a breath and calming warmth settled in his throat and in his lungs. Then there was an explosion.
The noise rang out like a sonic boom, encroaching on his peace as it always did. His eyes shot open and he was looking at a blank landscape.
Healing takes time.
Epilogue
He stood there, alone. The city had seem to go silent in memoriam, and above the skies shone undisturbed; a gleam of blue on his face. There was no traffic on the roads or in the air, just quiet. Only the sounds of rustled wind and a crunching leaf beneath his boot spoke out into the silence. And yet he could hear voices. Voices of the men, the lost and the living all around him, as if he were back in the desert, in the fields, in the wastelands. Women cried out to him. He couldn’t tell what they were saying, but he understood. Help. Stop. Save us. Memories like these don’t fade.
Colors do though.
Green gave way to maroon and auburn, a sign of death, and rebirth. Like the colors of the unrelenting, repressive flag, which have been washed away in blood and soil. Yet while bare branches replace the cool greens, this symbol is replaced by hope.
By an idea.
A new enlightenment, reasoned thinking, thinking at all. Suddenly threatened minds felt a ping of anxiety and subtle acceptance into a society where they were no longer ignored. No longer forced to be quieted or shunned.
Eventually we would rebuild. He was sure of it. But for now the ruins remained. For now the remnants of isolation still hung in these crumbled streets beneath him. Healing takes time. But he had all the time in the world, they all did.
Ahead of him lay a clearing. A few scattered blades of grass lay strewn amidst the opening and on top of them stood a sheep. Its white coat gleamed with sunlight, something so strange to the utopian aftermath and the broken concrete. He walked towards it, possessed by its beauty, its simplicity, and the voices disappeared. The sights of the city vanished. No sound came to his ears. Everything seemed to fade around the white cloud, a symbol of good. And he kept walking.
The animal glanced up, its mouth full, and blinked. It had the eyes of a child. Big, glass pupils fixed on him and he froze. He kept his distance so as not the frighten it, but to his surprise, the sheep approached him. It trotted over the mangled urban floor and the grass began to wilt. The sun appeared to be sucking its light from the clearing and it began to take the shape of the usual lifeless city courtyard. But darkness avoided the little sheep as it strode towards him. It was spotlighted and so alive. The space between the two was evaporating and the brightness was beginning to engulf him. His complexion softened and his muscles relaxed. His eyes fell shut. He opened his mouth to inhale a breath and calming warmth settled in his throat and in his lungs. Then there was an explosion.
The noise rang out like a sonic boom, encroaching on his peace as it always did. His eyes shot open and he was looking at a blank landscape.
Healing takes time.
Ara Batur
-This was an ending i wrote awhile ago for a would be epic. If you want the full effect, go to groovesharklite.com and search for Ara Batur by Sigur Ros and listen to it while reading.
Ara Batur
The cemetery was hushed as the grasses dipped in the wind, pushing themselves up against the white tombstones. A bird sang over the lawn as it passed, calling to the solemn visitors beneath. Sarah is walking, hands crossing the small of her back. Her shoes are open toed and she feels that freshly cut grass, aware of the sun setting behind her. Her senses were clear and her eyes were crystal. The path she followed was empty save the men and women under it, but she never felt alone. She quickened her pace as she caught sight of it, and her blue sundress swayed against her body, which was thin in its now obvious outline, a symptom of stress and tire. No one saw her as she ran, arms mobile at her side, moving back and forth as she didn’t bother to hold up the hem of her dress, and she tripped.
She fell to her knees, head down in emotion, and began to weep. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she looked up, her gaze lost in what lay in front of her. White marble, with a fresh engraving that read: “ALBERT WILSON GENIS, AGE 33”. The epitaph was the same as every stone, “MAY YOU REST IN PEACE, IMMORTAL FOREVER FOR YOUR COURAGE AND SERVITUDE.” Standard stone, standard farewell.
No flag sat atop it, no reverence towards a nation worth fighting for, or one worth fighting against. Only a photograph, placed at its base. In it were three men, arms over each others soldiers as they smiled for the camera, clean uniforms signifying the beginning of their service, innocent faces signifying a child’s naive confidence. The same innocence she fell in love with.
“Now see where it has left you,” she whispered eyes wide and glistening.
Then, from behind her back, she withdrew a red rose. She cupped it in her hands, wetting it with her sorrow, thorns stabbing at her palms. Pain seemed irrelevant anymore, but she trembled as she brought the rose to her lips, a flourish of deep red together in harmony, grievance, and acceptance. Finally she pulled the flower from her face and set it down against the tombstone. She stared at it against the fine white background as the sun’s fading light shone upon it. She drew a deep, sad breath and threw herself at the grave, placing a kiss on it and embracing it with all her strength.
Suddenly a gust of wind flew through the field and picked up the rose from beneath her shadow. She looked up into the sky as it danced in the current, wave after wave carrying it up and up, into the blue abyss. By now the sun was nearly behind the hills and painted the stones and the rose a deep orange, its haze vanishing into night. The rose disappeared along with it, and Sarah watched its grace as it soared above the clouds, her blue eyes dauntingly beautiful. And then it was gone.
She stood up, wiped the dirt from her dress and looked out over the horizon for the first time. Her hair flowed across her face and she pulled it away, amazed. The field stretched on for as far as the eye could see, white stones still dignified in the failing light, mourners walking amidst them, paying their respects the only way they could. Most of their heads faced down, unaware of the revelation and finality that gripped Sarah as she gazed over them unblinkingly.
This was life, and these were the people who died to preserve it. For everyone, so that life may go on again.
And again…
Ara Batur
The cemetery was hushed as the grasses dipped in the wind, pushing themselves up against the white tombstones. A bird sang over the lawn as it passed, calling to the solemn visitors beneath. Sarah is walking, hands crossing the small of her back. Her shoes are open toed and she feels that freshly cut grass, aware of the sun setting behind her. Her senses were clear and her eyes were crystal. The path she followed was empty save the men and women under it, but she never felt alone. She quickened her pace as she caught sight of it, and her blue sundress swayed against her body, which was thin in its now obvious outline, a symptom of stress and tire. No one saw her as she ran, arms mobile at her side, moving back and forth as she didn’t bother to hold up the hem of her dress, and she tripped.
She fell to her knees, head down in emotion, and began to weep. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she looked up, her gaze lost in what lay in front of her. White marble, with a fresh engraving that read: “ALBERT WILSON GENIS, AGE 33”. The epitaph was the same as every stone, “MAY YOU REST IN PEACE, IMMORTAL FOREVER FOR YOUR COURAGE AND SERVITUDE.” Standard stone, standard farewell.
No flag sat atop it, no reverence towards a nation worth fighting for, or one worth fighting against. Only a photograph, placed at its base. In it were three men, arms over each others soldiers as they smiled for the camera, clean uniforms signifying the beginning of their service, innocent faces signifying a child’s naive confidence. The same innocence she fell in love with.
“Now see where it has left you,” she whispered eyes wide and glistening.
Then, from behind her back, she withdrew a red rose. She cupped it in her hands, wetting it with her sorrow, thorns stabbing at her palms. Pain seemed irrelevant anymore, but she trembled as she brought the rose to her lips, a flourish of deep red together in harmony, grievance, and acceptance. Finally she pulled the flower from her face and set it down against the tombstone. She stared at it against the fine white background as the sun’s fading light shone upon it. She drew a deep, sad breath and threw herself at the grave, placing a kiss on it and embracing it with all her strength.
Suddenly a gust of wind flew through the field and picked up the rose from beneath her shadow. She looked up into the sky as it danced in the current, wave after wave carrying it up and up, into the blue abyss. By now the sun was nearly behind the hills and painted the stones and the rose a deep orange, its haze vanishing into night. The rose disappeared along with it, and Sarah watched its grace as it soared above the clouds, her blue eyes dauntingly beautiful. And then it was gone.
She stood up, wiped the dirt from her dress and looked out over the horizon for the first time. Her hair flowed across her face and she pulled it away, amazed. The field stretched on for as far as the eye could see, white stones still dignified in the failing light, mourners walking amidst them, paying their respects the only way they could. Most of their heads faced down, unaware of the revelation and finality that gripped Sarah as she gazed over them unblinkingly.
This was life, and these were the people who died to preserve it. For everyone, so that life may go on again.
And again…
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Overgrown
Do you know?
I've got this intuition,
dreams and visions,
every night as I sleep
in the same place where you would be
by my side. Oh nights like these,
as I dream, this not for who you think.
It came like a heat wave,
burning up bodies like you chose,
oh you should know by now
You had changed it all for the chance
And I had been who I wanted
I did, I know I did.
What it was,
It had made us, and then it drove us.
As it came, lies died.
It was around us, not in us.
I know I did what you did not.
I did, I know I did.
What helped? Who knows?
Thank you for letting the winter come
My faith in us was overgrown,
like poison ivy in a garden.
I did, I know I did.
Your morning's frost killed the summer heat.
Now I know I wont miss out
on the love that came with spring.
I did not, I know.
I've got this intuition,
dreams and visions,
every night as I sleep
in the same place where you would be
by my side. Oh nights like these,
as I dream, this not for who you think.
It came like a heat wave,
burning up bodies like you chose,
oh you should know by now
You had changed it all for the chance
And I had been who I wanted
I did, I know I did.
What it was,
It had made us, and then it drove us.
As it came, lies died.
It was around us, not in us.
I know I did what you did not.
I did, I know I did.
What helped? Who knows?
Thank you for letting the winter come
My faith in us was overgrown,
like poison ivy in a garden.
I did, I know I did.
Your morning's frost killed the summer heat.
Now I know I wont miss out
on the love that came with spring.
I did not, I know.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
:O
Tomorrow is the last day of my high school career.
None of you guys can relate to this because I think you are all juniors,
so let me just try to relate to you exactly what is going through my mind:
This is exciting. Wait no, I'm actually terrified. No, maybe a little exciting though, right? Well, do I really know anything else besides waking up at any point between 6 and 7 every weekday? I have eaten lunch off of plastic trays more than any other material. Drank more milk through a small cardboard box than a glass. God. How the hell am I going to spend my summer? Is Katie really going to hang out with me as much as she says she will? What about everyone else? No, I don't think anyone else will. I think I'm about to have a sad realization of the fact that I have less than 5 people in my life who give a shit about me and how I spend my time. That's too bad, but I guess will make it easier when I leave in August. Shit. August. Shit. College. I'm moving hundreds of miles away to share a room with some chick I don't even know. Will we get along? Well, I don't really get along with anyone, huh. Am I going to miss the people I hated for four years? Probably not, but I don't know, maybe? Am I going to miss all those underclassmen with the lives that I envy because they made the decisions I wish I made? No, I'll probably just facebook stalk them. Am I really going to keep in touch with all those kids who told me to? And even if I do, how long is that going to last? A year? Two years? When will the point come where communication finally comes to its stopping point? WHY DO I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS AND WHO IS GOING TO ANSWER THEM.
I don't know if that is an appropriate sampling of what normal high school seniors think about the night before their last day, or if I am just very annoying and dramatic. Nonetheless, holy shit.
None of you guys can relate to this because I think you are all juniors,
so let me just try to relate to you exactly what is going through my mind:
This is exciting. Wait no, I'm actually terrified. No, maybe a little exciting though, right? Well, do I really know anything else besides waking up at any point between 6 and 7 every weekday? I have eaten lunch off of plastic trays more than any other material. Drank more milk through a small cardboard box than a glass. God. How the hell am I going to spend my summer? Is Katie really going to hang out with me as much as she says she will? What about everyone else? No, I don't think anyone else will. I think I'm about to have a sad realization of the fact that I have less than 5 people in my life who give a shit about me and how I spend my time. That's too bad, but I guess will make it easier when I leave in August. Shit. August. Shit. College. I'm moving hundreds of miles away to share a room with some chick I don't even know. Will we get along? Well, I don't really get along with anyone, huh. Am I going to miss the people I hated for four years? Probably not, but I don't know, maybe? Am I going to miss all those underclassmen with the lives that I envy because they made the decisions I wish I made? No, I'll probably just facebook stalk them. Am I really going to keep in touch with all those kids who told me to? And even if I do, how long is that going to last? A year? Two years? When will the point come where communication finally comes to its stopping point? WHY DO I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS AND WHO IS GOING TO ANSWER THEM.
I don't know if that is an appropriate sampling of what normal high school seniors think about the night before their last day, or if I am just very annoying and dramatic. Nonetheless, holy shit.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Salutations from the Summerdrome
Hey everybody. Welcome to my first post on this blog. I'm sure many of you can figure out who this is without much difficulty, and I don't care. Even if I don't have the luxury of one of the highlights of the internet - the esteemed veil of anonymity that's quickly becoming a staple of the human diet, I don't care. I'm here. To write. Some shit. It's exactly 11:30 PM according to my kitchen appliances, it's a Friday night in June, I'm home alone and I have nothing to do. Uh-oh, this must be a pseudo-depressed-half-assed-cry-for-help-sort-of-post, right? GOTCHA. I don't feel like bitching tonight. I don't feel like telling you about how my average smalltown whitemiddleclass life didn't go how I planned it today. Boo-fucking-hoo. Because let's face it, generation, bitching has been ruined by....well....bitches. To me, the only appropriate time to really bitch is when inebriated (preferably by alcoholic means) and in good company. So what would you like to talk about? Philosophy? God? Religion? Music? Art? Maybe we could have a "progressivism-off" in which we pretend to throw groundbreaking ideas at eachother, secretly waiting for that one (obviously ignorant) conservative fellow to come along (he always does), whereupon we berate him with our superior intellects. Sounds fucking cool. Maybe we could do it in a Starbucks or something. Or wait, I forgot, Starbucks isn't cool anymore. Now it's all about "independent" and "free-trade" coffeeshops. Coffee's coffee, dipshit. And don't give me that shit about kids in undeveloped countries. Because you and I both know that you don't really care. Not that you shouldn't care. But face it, you don't. You do it for your benefit, not theirs. How do I know? Fuck you. I just realized how stupid this post is. I'm no more of a non-conformist than you are. But I hope that by admitting that, somehow I am. I hate this post, I hate myself, and I hate all of you. I'm in love.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Consider This
A heartfelt letter, carefully inscribed
A seven second newsreel with scratches on the side
Fourteen paper clips and a green wooden table
Elevated, unpopulated, underneath a gable
Sheets of powdered loose leaf and a writing utensil
Left aside, a broken mind, an unused stencil
What's most, the host, a ray of sunshine
For the quint little character of forgotten rhyme
Still left without a present and a well-known past
Still steady and ready, its legs are steadfast
Next to all of this is an open window frame
Seven seconds in time, it will always be the same
A seven second newsreel with scratches on the side
Fourteen paper clips and a green wooden table
Elevated, unpopulated, underneath a gable
Sheets of powdered loose leaf and a writing utensil
Left aside, a broken mind, an unused stencil
What's most, the host, a ray of sunshine
For the quint little character of forgotten rhyme
Still left without a present and a well-known past
Still steady and ready, its legs are steadfast
Next to all of this is an open window frame
Seven seconds in time, it will always be the same
Society at it's best: making children's stories politically correct.
Politically Correct Peter Pan
In London there lived a family of five, mother, father, Wendy, John, and Michael. Their friend Peter Pan from The Netherlands would come and visit them during the summer. Tinker Bell, Peter’s 21 year old guardian had decided to allow Peter to bring his friends to their home in The Netherlands. When Peter arrived at Wendy’s house he told her about the fun trip they were allowed to go on, as long as it was ok by Wendy’s parents. Because Tinker Bell was a responsible adult, Wendy and the boys were allowed to go.
They packed all of their essentials and headed for the boat harbor. Tinker Bell decided that the gas prices were too high to take the drive, so the boat would be their method of transportation. When they got on the boat Peter introduced Wendy, John, and Michael to the orphaned children and then started to tell them all about The Netherlands. It was home to the Netherland people, when they arrived they would be able to take a tour with them. As they traveled through the sea, the children came across another boat, Peter Pan had told the children it was home to Captain James Hook and his crew.
Captain Hook always carried a candy cane in his left hand. He loved candy and always asked the kids very politely to have some candy. Peter Pan warned the children that eating candy was not healthy and although he knew Caption Hook very well and they were friends they shouldn’t give in to his persuasions.
“Hey Peter, I see you have some new friends over there.”
“Yes Captain, this is Wendy, John, and Michael.”
“So would they like some candy?” Hook waved a large king size chocolate bar in the air. The smell lingered over to the children’s noses.
Thinking on his feet Peter grabbed a tall orange carrot and put it in the view of all of them. He took a bite and then asked the children if they wanted to have one too.
“Oh boy, I love carrots” said one of the boys.
“Hey can I have a tomato?” One of the girls exclaimed.
Now that they had their mind off the candy they said goodbye to Hook and continued on their way. They reached the harbor and gathered all of their belongings. Tinker Bell counted all of the children and made sure that everyone was with her. They finally checked into the hotel and left their luggage in the room. They went down to the lobby and met their tour guide for the evening. There stood a man and a woman waiting for them down stairs.
“Hello, we will be showing our wonderful town to all of you beautiful children today. Did you know that the Netherlands are known for their discouragement against drugs? No one should take drugs because they are bad for you.” The woman said while she turned to guide us to the vehicle they were taking.
The children rode around for hours and taking in all the sights. They made it a point to stop and eat their vegetable packed lunches too. When they went back to the hotel Wendy started to get homesick and she asked Peter if they could go back home.
Peter told them, “as you wish,” and then the orphaned children asked Wendy if they all could go home with her to stay.
She told them very well, and that they should get their things and they will go. What they didn’t know was that while they were away Captain Hook planted a jaw breaker in Peter’s bedroom. It was disguised as a tomato. The children walked outside to get ready to go to the harbor. Wendy stopped and looked back at Peter.
“Aren’t you going to come home too?” She asked kindly.
“No, the Netherlands are my home and I want to stay here and eat my vegetables.”
“Oh, alright then.”
She walked outside with Tinker Bell and they started towards the boat. Looking around she saw that Hook was unusually happy and she asked him why for.
“I gave Peter a present that’s all.” He gave a smirk and turned away.
Tinker Bell dropped her bags and ran back into the hotel as fast as she could. Up the stairs to Peter’s room she fled. Inside he was just about to bite a tomato when she jumped in front of him and grabbed it.
“What are you doing that’s mine.” Pan complained.
“That is not a tomato.” She tried to catch her breath.
With a sour look on her face she took a bite of the “tomato”. There was a huge cracking noise and Pan saw that what he thought was a tomato was actually a jaw breaker.
“Oh wow, Tink, thank you so much, but now what are you going to do about your teeth?”
“Don’t worry I knew my insurance would cover it so it’s ok, I’ll go to the dentist and everything will be fine. But that’s a story for another time.”
They slowly walked to the boat. When they got there Peter confronted Captain Hook.
“That wasn’t a very nice gift.”
“I’m sorry Pan, but you know how much I love candy. Why can’t you just have one piece?”
“Because vegetables are better for you. But I suppose the only way to end this tension between our friendship is to make a compromise.”
“Like what, do you suppose?” Captain Hook looked confused.
“Like one day a year kids will be able to go out and eat candy all day. We will call it character day. They can even dress up like different people too.”
“Fine, I guess that will be ok, say are you all going somewhere?”
“Yes Captain, could you take us back to London?” Wendy asked politely.
Captain Hook agreed to take them. They arrived just in time before dark. When they went upstairs Wendy’s parents were so happy to see them. John asked mother if it was ok for the orphaned children to stay. They were asking him the whole way back if they could. The parents found that there was no problem and the orphaned children were all finally adopted. Peter said goodbye and told Wendy that he will still visit her. Tinker Bell took Peter down stairs and they boarded Hook’s boat and waved behind them as they sailed into the sunset.
In London there lived a family of five, mother, father, Wendy, John, and Michael. Their friend Peter Pan from The Netherlands would come and visit them during the summer. Tinker Bell, Peter’s 21 year old guardian had decided to allow Peter to bring his friends to their home in The Netherlands. When Peter arrived at Wendy’s house he told her about the fun trip they were allowed to go on, as long as it was ok by Wendy’s parents. Because Tinker Bell was a responsible adult, Wendy and the boys were allowed to go.
They packed all of their essentials and headed for the boat harbor. Tinker Bell decided that the gas prices were too high to take the drive, so the boat would be their method of transportation. When they got on the boat Peter introduced Wendy, John, and Michael to the orphaned children and then started to tell them all about The Netherlands. It was home to the Netherland people, when they arrived they would be able to take a tour with them. As they traveled through the sea, the children came across another boat, Peter Pan had told the children it was home to Captain James Hook and his crew.
Captain Hook always carried a candy cane in his left hand. He loved candy and always asked the kids very politely to have some candy. Peter Pan warned the children that eating candy was not healthy and although he knew Caption Hook very well and they were friends they shouldn’t give in to his persuasions.
“Hey Peter, I see you have some new friends over there.”
“Yes Captain, this is Wendy, John, and Michael.”
“So would they like some candy?” Hook waved a large king size chocolate bar in the air. The smell lingered over to the children’s noses.
Thinking on his feet Peter grabbed a tall orange carrot and put it in the view of all of them. He took a bite and then asked the children if they wanted to have one too.
“Oh boy, I love carrots” said one of the boys.
“Hey can I have a tomato?” One of the girls exclaimed.
Now that they had their mind off the candy they said goodbye to Hook and continued on their way. They reached the harbor and gathered all of their belongings. Tinker Bell counted all of the children and made sure that everyone was with her. They finally checked into the hotel and left their luggage in the room. They went down to the lobby and met their tour guide for the evening. There stood a man and a woman waiting for them down stairs.
“Hello, we will be showing our wonderful town to all of you beautiful children today. Did you know that the Netherlands are known for their discouragement against drugs? No one should take drugs because they are bad for you.” The woman said while she turned to guide us to the vehicle they were taking.
The children rode around for hours and taking in all the sights. They made it a point to stop and eat their vegetable packed lunches too. When they went back to the hotel Wendy started to get homesick and she asked Peter if they could go back home.
Peter told them, “as you wish,” and then the orphaned children asked Wendy if they all could go home with her to stay.
She told them very well, and that they should get their things and they will go. What they didn’t know was that while they were away Captain Hook planted a jaw breaker in Peter’s bedroom. It was disguised as a tomato. The children walked outside to get ready to go to the harbor. Wendy stopped and looked back at Peter.
“Aren’t you going to come home too?” She asked kindly.
“No, the Netherlands are my home and I want to stay here and eat my vegetables.”
“Oh, alright then.”
She walked outside with Tinker Bell and they started towards the boat. Looking around she saw that Hook was unusually happy and she asked him why for.
“I gave Peter a present that’s all.” He gave a smirk and turned away.
Tinker Bell dropped her bags and ran back into the hotel as fast as she could. Up the stairs to Peter’s room she fled. Inside he was just about to bite a tomato when she jumped in front of him and grabbed it.
“What are you doing that’s mine.” Pan complained.
“That is not a tomato.” She tried to catch her breath.
With a sour look on her face she took a bite of the “tomato”. There was a huge cracking noise and Pan saw that what he thought was a tomato was actually a jaw breaker.
“Oh wow, Tink, thank you so much, but now what are you going to do about your teeth?”
“Don’t worry I knew my insurance would cover it so it’s ok, I’ll go to the dentist and everything will be fine. But that’s a story for another time.”
They slowly walked to the boat. When they got there Peter confronted Captain Hook.
“That wasn’t a very nice gift.”
“I’m sorry Pan, but you know how much I love candy. Why can’t you just have one piece?”
“Because vegetables are better for you. But I suppose the only way to end this tension between our friendship is to make a compromise.”
“Like what, do you suppose?” Captain Hook looked confused.
“Like one day a year kids will be able to go out and eat candy all day. We will call it character day. They can even dress up like different people too.”
“Fine, I guess that will be ok, say are you all going somewhere?”
“Yes Captain, could you take us back to London?” Wendy asked politely.
Captain Hook agreed to take them. They arrived just in time before dark. When they went upstairs Wendy’s parents were so happy to see them. John asked mother if it was ok for the orphaned children to stay. They were asking him the whole way back if they could. The parents found that there was no problem and the orphaned children were all finally adopted. Peter said goodbye and told Wendy that he will still visit her. Tinker Bell took Peter down stairs and they boarded Hook’s boat and waved behind them as they sailed into the sunset.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
May 14
When i died, i felt nothing in that moment. No pain, no sorrow. I didn't have this revelation, nor did my life flash before my eyes. I didn't see this beam of angelic light, just the fluorescents, which needed to be changed. The lord above didn't come to speak with me and send some urgent message for the fate of man kind. In that moment i thought one thing, and one thing only. Where the hell was everyone? Where were the mourners who were to drop to my feet? Where were the witnesses who were to run and scream mercy? Where was the family who was to lose an important part of themselves? Where the hell was everyone? That crap about seeing all my passed loved ones? Yeah, well that was joke if i ever knew one. Bright red veins. My own flesh and blood. It's weird ya know, hearing yourself slowly go. Remember when your favorite battery operated toy was losing its life and the sound became this unknown demonic tone? Well thats all i heard in my last moments. Damn annoying. Now try and imagine my hostility at the pearly gates if i ever made it. Try and imagine losing the feeling at your fingertips, and the very tip of your toes. The numbing pain slowly rising through your blood, no longer pumping warm, but cold. Laying still, because although you may want to get up and go your body's got other plans for you. This warm, wet liquid lining your body puts you in a trans like state, frees your mind while its still just that. Quick, you have to say goodbye, Christ if you don't you'll never hear the end of it.
But where the hell is everyone?
Gone.
What is this? No, No i cant move my arm, now stop asking. Dark. Light. Red. I cant answer you, I'm trying, but i cant. Don't leave, not yet. Just wait. Give me a chance, Jesus even after death I'm rushed. Those voices, i know them. They make me love the dulling demonic tone of death. The ripping pain in my side makes me love the numbing feel of loss. Get the mourners off my back, tell the witnesses to pipe down. As for the family? Mellow dramatic. I don't think I'm ready to open my eyes, not unless I'm returning as a completely new soul. Not unless the skies are suddenly clear, the grass a new shade of green, and the faces with painted smiles. No, No i don't want to get up and walk, now stop asking. Red. Light.
Reborn.
But where the hell is everyone?
Gone.
What is this? No, No i cant move my arm, now stop asking. Dark. Light. Red. I cant answer you, I'm trying, but i cant. Don't leave, not yet. Just wait. Give me a chance, Jesus even after death I'm rushed. Those voices, i know them. They make me love the dulling demonic tone of death. The ripping pain in my side makes me love the numbing feel of loss. Get the mourners off my back, tell the witnesses to pipe down. As for the family? Mellow dramatic. I don't think I'm ready to open my eyes, not unless I'm returning as a completely new soul. Not unless the skies are suddenly clear, the grass a new shade of green, and the faces with painted smiles. No, No i don't want to get up and walk, now stop asking. Red. Light.
Reborn.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
i never gave this mofo a title
sleeping soundly through the sadness
dreams devour dire doubts
waking worried, walking wordless
undesired ups and downs
coming closer with each clock tick
another apprehensive hour
every evening less appealing
replacing prozac for my power
buried in the body is a beating battered ball
restless and resentful it retires each withdrawal
mindful of the morning, mentality's a mess
push it further down the pocket of the pants you wore to bed
tell it to the troubled that rely on tiny pills:
nurture never comes from neglecting your own will
haha i wrote that last year when i was heavily, heavily medicated.
dreams devour dire doubts
waking worried, walking wordless
undesired ups and downs
coming closer with each clock tick
another apprehensive hour
every evening less appealing
replacing prozac for my power
buried in the body is a beating battered ball
restless and resentful it retires each withdrawal
mindful of the morning, mentality's a mess
push it further down the pocket of the pants you wore to bed
tell it to the troubled that rely on tiny pills:
nurture never comes from neglecting your own will
haha i wrote that last year when i was heavily, heavily medicated.
Separation of Powers
People have everything down to a science. It's unfortunate. If you were to write a story, I could break out a predefined rubric and tell how you how good it is based on description, literary elements, prose and conventions. But does that really make it a good story? Can a standard be set for judging that? There are so many new and original styles of writing, what would happen if we had that same rubric set around music? Where would rock n roll be? To me, even content (within reason) is irrelevant. The only thing that matters if reader reaction; how a story makes us feel, if it is memorable, what it teaches you. I guess this is just a vent against this lame regents we have to take soon. Maybe I just like to argue >.<
Love
can change you, make you, break you
it's living, breathing, and perfect
like the unicorn, nearly impossible to find
that state of absolute euphoria
Love, however, can be treacherous
falling in love can mean your life
Be wary,
Love can be suicide
Monday, June 1, 2009
Where I'm From
I am from a place of insignificance
A pitt stop on the way to someplace better
I am from a place where true love
is something people can only dream of
I am from my parents
no matter where i go
I am still from my parents
who raised and prepared me for life in this world
I am from a place
where labels are not only put on soup cans
but on human beings as well
I am from a place where we are blinded from the truth
Censored from the "real" world
I am from a place where people are afraid
Afraid to stray away from the "norm"
A pitt stop on the way to someplace better
I am from a place where true love
is something people can only dream of
I am from my parents
no matter where i go
I am still from my parents
who raised and prepared me for life in this world
I am from a place
where labels are not only put on soup cans
but on human beings as well
I am from a place where we are blinded from the truth
Censored from the "real" world
I am from a place where people are afraid
Afraid to stray away from the "norm"
Fuck Conformity
Sunday, May 31, 2009
RandWasWrong
By Rand I mean Ayn Rand, and by wrong I don't mean her philosophies. I'm only starting to read into those, so I couldn't give you a distinct argument either way. I'm just reading Anthem by her, about another futuristic society whose morals and ways of thinking have blown so far off course they are now in what can only be described as another stone age. With candles. The premise is that all humans have lost any sense of self and individuality, leaving them with the great "we". It's a world where one can't be alone, think alone or even have preferences... to anything.
I just don't buy it.
There are so many stories about our future being less than our past and everyone in it being extremely ignorant. But how can this happen? So some natural disaster/man made catastrophe/unstoppable epidemic/alien attack leaves humanity with only a few survivors, say 1,000 people. They, in turn, have to create new generations, but knowing what they know then (and assuming these 1,000 people aren't ALL naiive, uneducated kids/toddlers), why would they simply forget it all? Clearly they have to know some basics of life including reproducing to survive, why is it that only supreme ignorance is passed down to their successors?? If these people survived whatever killed the other 5,999,999,000, they would still hold to their learned traits and morals.
The way I see it there is only a cycle. We were monkeys (sorry creationists), now we're humans, if we all die (assuming there are still monkeys), the monkeys will once again evolve or that will just be the end of us. If any of us survive, the monkeys won't have time to evolve before we just return to this state we're at currently. There is no complete 180 in human behavior and knowledge, just this again.
I just don't buy it.
There are so many stories about our future being less than our past and everyone in it being extremely ignorant. But how can this happen? So some natural disaster/man made catastrophe/unstoppable epidemic/alien attack leaves humanity with only a few survivors, say 1,000 people. They, in turn, have to create new generations, but knowing what they know then (and assuming these 1,000 people aren't ALL naiive, uneducated kids/toddlers), why would they simply forget it all? Clearly they have to know some basics of life including reproducing to survive, why is it that only supreme ignorance is passed down to their successors?? If these people survived whatever killed the other 5,999,999,000, they would still hold to their learned traits and morals.
The way I see it there is only a cycle. We were monkeys (sorry creationists), now we're humans, if we all die (assuming there are still monkeys), the monkeys will once again evolve or that will just be the end of us. If any of us survive, the monkeys won't have time to evolve before we just return to this state we're at currently. There is no complete 180 in human behavior and knowledge, just this again.
Eggs
When I was a child, I developed a loathing for eggs. Sometimes, when I was ill, my mother would stir an egg into my milk, sweeten it, and try to convince me that it was a kind of milk shake. Invariably, a quivering piece of raw egg-white -- something like a boiled booger, cooled and congealed -- would lie stranded on my tongue.
Even now, I shudder in remembered disgust.
I could be induced to try a little scrambled egg (if very dry) or a hard-boiled egg (if very cold, and with its shell dyed in the gaudiest Easter-egg colors that modern chemistry could provide), but the very idea of slurping down runny yolks -- reeking sulfuriously in their fluorescent yellow nastiness -- was the stuff of nightmares.
Just sitting at the breakfast table when my father cut into his sunnyside-ups was an unbearable ordeal. I could turn away, of course, but that eggy smell soon overcame my pitiful attempts at table manners -- and there was no way to hide the kicking-in of the gag reflex. I was certain that there was nothing worse that could happen at breakfast.
I was wrong.
One morning, I woke to find that my grandfather had spent the night at our house. He was a silent gray figure, as grizzled and uncuddly as the generations of taciturn Danes who preceded him. He sat, hunched slightly forward at the breakfast table, looking down at his glass of milk. He remained silent as I sat across from him. He lifted the glass, and slowly -- in one long draft -- drank the whole thing. It was only at the end, when the cloudy glass was nearly empty, that I saw it.
A raw egg had been lying, hidden like some foul serpent, at the bottom of his glass. Slowly, oh how horribly slowly, the slimy thing slid down the milky film and into his mouth.
Nearly sixty years later, I have become as gray and grizzled and uncuddly as my grandfather was then -- but no power on earth could make me swallow one of those milky raw eggs.
Even now, I shudder in remembered disgust.
I could be induced to try a little scrambled egg (if very dry) or a hard-boiled egg (if very cold, and with its shell dyed in the gaudiest Easter-egg colors that modern chemistry could provide), but the very idea of slurping down runny yolks -- reeking sulfuriously in their fluorescent yellow nastiness -- was the stuff of nightmares.
Just sitting at the breakfast table when my father cut into his sunnyside-ups was an unbearable ordeal. I could turn away, of course, but that eggy smell soon overcame my pitiful attempts at table manners -- and there was no way to hide the kicking-in of the gag reflex. I was certain that there was nothing worse that could happen at breakfast.
I was wrong.
One morning, I woke to find that my grandfather had spent the night at our house. He was a silent gray figure, as grizzled and uncuddly as the generations of taciturn Danes who preceded him. He sat, hunched slightly forward at the breakfast table, looking down at his glass of milk. He remained silent as I sat across from him. He lifted the glass, and slowly -- in one long draft -- drank the whole thing. It was only at the end, when the cloudy glass was nearly empty, that I saw it.
A raw egg had been lying, hidden like some foul serpent, at the bottom of his glass. Slowly, oh how horribly slowly, the slimy thing slid down the milky film and into his mouth.
Nearly sixty years later, I have become as gray and grizzled and uncuddly as my grandfather was then -- but no power on earth could make me swallow one of those milky raw eggs.
This is not about love.
I can't think of anything else I've ever been asked to contribute to, although I'm about ninety-nine percent sure Jon asked everyone he knew, so, I really shouldn't feel particularly honored. But, I'll probably be spittin some personal shit on here. I write late at night in a tiny notebook that folds open like a letter, with an ancient-looking world map on the cover in all sorts of browns and golds. No one has ever read any of my shit. I think this blog is actually a pretty cool idea, but, if I write anything, it's gonna be some personal shit. Everyone is going to have to deal with that.
That being said, I'm going to write something now. This is a poem with no literary elements, no rhythm, no stanzas, and in complete prose. Is it a poem, then? Probably not. But, I am going to call it one, and being its creator, I have the understanding that I can use full artistic interpretation as deeming it Just Poetic Enough to be a poem.
I really don't know why I ever let my body do what I want it to. "It seemed like a good idea at the time" is a phrase that I've used to justify just about every bad idea I've ever had. But most of the time, it doesn't seem like a good idea at the time, and I fully acknowledge how horrible of an idea it is. Then I think, "Oh well, it's a learning experience." And I do it. Like last night. Like two weeks ago. Like last month. Like last summer. Like last year. Like two summers ago. Like three years ago. The common denominator, ultimately, is my lack of self-respect. Which is a complete lie, because I happen to have a great deal of it. But after each time, it seems to have burrowed itself as far back in my conscience as is possible for a personified self-respect to do. I guess it could be worse. It could be ten instead of three. I could have permanent consequences. Brain damage, a hospital visit. But I don't. Instead, I have the gift of internalizing, analyzing, and just before I'm about to really figure myself out, I stop. And push all of my progress into the far back of my mind. Or, I scratch it down on paper and shove my tiny notebook that folds up like a letter back far, far under my bed.
I just realized more people might read this than I had initially figured. OK. I'm going to stop now.
That being said, I'm going to write something now. This is a poem with no literary elements, no rhythm, no stanzas, and in complete prose. Is it a poem, then? Probably not. But, I am going to call it one, and being its creator, I have the understanding that I can use full artistic interpretation as deeming it Just Poetic Enough to be a poem.
I really don't know why I ever let my body do what I want it to. "It seemed like a good idea at the time" is a phrase that I've used to justify just about every bad idea I've ever had. But most of the time, it doesn't seem like a good idea at the time, and I fully acknowledge how horrible of an idea it is. Then I think, "Oh well, it's a learning experience." And I do it. Like last night. Like two weeks ago. Like last month. Like last summer. Like last year. Like two summers ago. Like three years ago. The common denominator, ultimately, is my lack of self-respect. Which is a complete lie, because I happen to have a great deal of it. But after each time, it seems to have burrowed itself as far back in my conscience as is possible for a personified self-respect to do. I guess it could be worse. It could be ten instead of three. I could have permanent consequences. Brain damage, a hospital visit. But I don't. Instead, I have the gift of internalizing, analyzing, and just before I'm about to really figure myself out, I stop. And push all of my progress into the far back of my mind. Or, I scratch it down on paper and shove my tiny notebook that folds up like a letter back far, far under my bed.
I just realized more people might read this than I had initially figured. OK. I'm going to stop now.
Leo, a Story of Mine
Now that slithery little curmudgeon is walking over to me and Dartha, her in her satin red dress, me in my inexpensive suit jacket. I’m swishing the champagne in my glass just to keep from looking at him as he approaches and I hear Dartha sigh.
“Hey chaps! How are you two this fine evening?” he spits our way.
“Good, just good,” I shrug making then losing eye contact with the man. Instead my gaze finds his plump midsection and burst buttons, a few inches north of a rather unsightly bulge, no doubt Leo’s own creation to attract the opposite sex at the party.
There is an awkward pause as we nod and Dartha says, “So, Leo, where’s Gweneth?” referring to his most recent wife.
“Oh she’s away on business.” We nod some more. “Yeah you know how it is, one day you’re in love, the next she’s away shacking up with a long-haired romance novelist in a degraded strip club in
Finally Leo sees the conversation is going nowhere, or perhaps he sees a tray of hors d’oeuvres being served elsewhere, and he exits with a quick “Well… best of luck chaps!” We watch as he drags his fat arse between the throngs of people and disappears.
“Well that was lovely,” grumbles my beloved.
I glimpse towards the immense grandfather clock at the end of the hall. 7:29 it reads. ‘Ah yes’ I think, ‘supper’. Right on cue, as is the elitist way to begin anything, a server appears from the balcony and regards the crowd below him. From behind his back he withdraws a gold bell and rings it as the people start to notice him and quiet down. Anxious silence stands amidst the guests as the man proclaims, “Tonight we will be eating in the dining room behind these doors.” He points to two illustrious gold plated doors beneath him. “Your host will then arrive, along with your waiters, to inform you of your courses. So I ask that everyone is calm and courteous in entering…” Before he can finish the doors open as spews of people rush through them. “And enjoy!” he shouts thrusting his arms up, clearly a presentation that was supposed to precede the movement into the dining area.
We drain our glasses and place them on the nearest glass table, eager as anyone for our meal. Once in transition, it took us a few minutes before we could be seated, the rushes of people aiming for a spot near the host. The man in question was talk show host Eddie Leimbower, a very well known name around these parts; also an investor in StraightEdge computer products, my company. I, like most of the people around me, do not know Leimbower on a personal basis, but just enough to receive an invite to his first annual Christmas gala and dinner. Unlike most though, I have no urge to meet the man or enter into his private posse, so I’m perfectly content with my seat near the opposite end of the enormous rectangular table. I’m here for the food. See, the pop culture icon is known to dabble in quite an array of interesting cuisine, and prides himself on electing the courses for his guests himself. I suppose that makes both of us small connoisseurs of the art. As for his conversation? I’d prefer to indulge without that monotonous, ignorant spiel of politically corrected garbage that all TV personalities seem to carry along with them. I’m an opportunist. Right now I’m savoring the opportunity of a lifetime, not Eddie Leimbower’s squabble.
“Please stand,” announces another man dressed similarly to the one from the balcony. His voice is coincidently much deeper and has a grand gesture to it so we do as we are told. Out walks a short, lean man dressed in elegant black and white who bows to us before taking his seat at the head of the table. The rest of the party follows suit.
Above us dangles a long line of crystal chandeliers that glimmers softly in the dim lighting. High ceilings and majestic tapestries boast richness, a feature I only hope is shared by our first course. No cigar. After the long and unnecessary introductions we’re told we will be starting with a light Italian wedding style soup with a white
Plain, unappealing, watery baby vomit.
I feel as though better flavor is experienced through a Progresso can. Even the wine is uncannily sweet. Swing and a miss Leimbower. To my surprise the rest of my company appears to enjoy it, and they don’t restrain any kind words from the beaming idiot at the head of this monstrosity. I turn to Dartha next to me who merely displays a message of ‘What do you expect?’ My expectations are plummeting as the servers declare the second course; vinaigrette topped green salad with small olives, mushrooms and a stuffed clam. Excitement once again turns to horror as the unsightly, dry lettuce and dull dressing force their way down my throat. I’ve nearly given up hope as I engage the obese mollusk left on my plate whose substance is no stronger than the gooey aftermath of leftover grocery bought seafood. And yet again the crowd sings their praise to the chef and to the host who soaks it up like an old sponge under water. Astonishingly I don’t hear Leo’s crippling voice over the howling lapdogs. Perhaps there is some culture left in him after all.
By now I’m staring at my wristwatch, praying for the end of this miserable night. It says 9:00 which means the main course. The lead role in this theatrical vision of hell, the captain of the S.S. Suckfest, the straw that is without a doubt going to break my intestines. A tender loin accented with garlic and herb spices with lemon encrusted shrimp and a side of fresh broccoli. I don’t fall for the delectable descriptions, not anymore at least. All I can do is eye my wife with anticipation and feel sick.
Out comes the meat, which is undeniably well presented with a bitter Merlot. I close my eyes and place a small sliver in my mouth. Unlike the other dishes I’m not instantly met with unpleasantness, but instead a unique, warming sensation. It is no doubt juicy, and actually quite enjoyable. Its flavor is new to me, maybe some of that fine foreign cuisine I came for. It’s delicious. Even the mediocre sides seem to come alive and amaze me when blended with this delightful loin. I have to stop myself from delivering positive comments to Eddie.
Just then my teeth chomp down on something hard. A forgotten bone perhaps, but I’m unsettled nonetheless and I pull it out. Even more disturbing in its true identity, a large brass button now lay sitting in my palm. All alluring sentiments aside, I have to stop myself from gagging. I drop it on the tablecloth and turn away from it.
“Do you see this Dartha?” I ask her, motioning towards the button.
“Was that in your food?” she replies.
“Yeah, and I was just starting to enjoy this meal,” I state dissatisfied. I then take the repulsive brass circle and place it in my pocket, excusing myself from the remainder of dinner.
I wait out in the hall, passing time by looking out into the night through the great glass windows adjacent to the entrance. Finally the clock strikes 11 and I hear the voices inside settle. Next I hear the arrogant bellows of a television talk show personality and applause. Dinner is over, and the guests are pleased, all except one.
The party disassembles slowly, the last members trying to extend their last chances of greeting Eddie Leimbower, and finally being ushered out the door, except for me and Dartha who keep a low profile in the corner. I finger the button in my coat pocket and eventually the short tuxedoed man notices us. Politely but tiredly he walks over and says, “I appreciate your gratuity but I must bid all guests farewell....”
I step forward. “Oh we are here on no act of gratuity Mr. Leimbower.”
“Is there a problem? Was something wrong with the meal?” he questioned with a sincere look on his face.
My hand pulls the button out and places it in my opposite palm. My eyes catch it once again and my mouth opens to argue, but then I stop. A twinge of familiarity rises in my mind as I look at the piece of brass and a smile grows on my lips.
I suddenly know where I had seen that button before.
I suddenly know why the meat had tasted so strange.
I suddenly know why the notables always kept Leo around.
And I thought celebrities had bad taste.
Starting Something?
Hmm... kind of drafty in here. All alone on this. Well consider this a blog for inspired writers/opinionists (just made that word up!)/philosophers/poets and lyricists. Even if that just means me. It's my blog and it's free so WHATEVER. Then again if you're reading this, that could mean you. Now also consider offering your two cents, and better yet your writing. On anything. About anything. I don't know about you guys, but I think writing loves company so post what you got!
I just discovered if you want to post your writing on here you have to give me your e-mail, then I can add you as an author. I can add up to 100 people on that, therefore allowing them to post for everyone to see. That's the idea, for this to be anyone's blog. Don't worry, I don't want your e-mail for anything but this.
I just discovered if you want to post your writing on here you have to give me your e-mail, then I can add you as an author. I can add up to 100 people on that, therefore allowing them to post for everyone to see. That's the idea, for this to be anyone's blog. Don't worry, I don't want your e-mail for anything but this.
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