Blank

I have nothing to say about anything. This worries me.

One liner

I like to think that when I make a $50 or more pledge to PBS, my donated dollars do NOT go towards a secret plan to revive the late Mr. Rogers. *ripbillymays!*

Boo-Yah!

Bum Around Posts

Oh, look, another post
finally crawling to bed;
"Been out much?" I said,
not caring if tired were dead.

What good is a post if it doesn't come home
every day or every night?
You don't see it, you only feed it,
hoping it'll be home by light.

I truly love my posts,
that much I count to be true;
but I only wish they would be warm at home,
napping and purring by you.

Poem from 11-11-10

My Muse

You're leaving
on a night like this,
as snow drapes the city
and winds bring us closer?
So tomorrow will learn
life without you;
day will be dregs,
night will be space.
I know we are unique;
I'll never forget it.
So tomorrow you'll leave,
and all I can do
is freeze us in ice
and wait until spring--
with the equinox return--
to thaw us out,
to resume what we have.

Feelin' Saucy

Sometimes I feel like a failure. There are times when it hurts to keep going because the pressure and fear are too intense. There's nothing more I'd like to do than collapse and start sobbing and not stop until my whole body is calm again.

Yeah, sometimes I feel like a failure. But so what? Sometimes I feel like never showing my ugly face to another person for as long as I live, but so what?

I'll tell that fear to roll over, play dead, and go fetch; then we'll take a nap together in my backyard. If my fear bites me, I won't get too angry: it's not like I'll stop feeding him.

I'll watch my fear from the safety of my house as it hails thunder and hell around me. It'll drizzle softly on my roof and I'll fall asleep to it's hypnotic lull.

In fact, why don't we have some pain with our fear? I'll eat it with my hands and wipe the barbecue off my smiling face. (Vegan pain is also available, if you prefer.)

Okay, sure, sometimes I feel like a failure; sometimes my mind plays cruel games on me and I always get hurt (like getting a basketball thrown in your face); sometimes terror of failure seizes my soft stomach and shakes it violently until I can't take it anymore and black out emotionally; sometimes apathy wraps around my arms and crushes my sternum like how strong people do to weaker people when giving them hugs, and squeezes me so hard I stop breathing and bright life drips out of my ears like toothpaste. But so what?

This is life, and if you're alive right now, it's already begun.

It's been..."educational."

This week has been very education.

This week I learned that I am not a responsible or knowledgeable adult. I'm still a student, which means that I don't know very much. I'm young, which means my experience is limited and, while my potential to develop my mind is enormous, I'm still ignorant about the world. This doesn't apply to everyone, but it's definitely my opinion of myself.

I've learned about my faults the hard way. I've been confronted head-on with my laziness and apathy, and hung my head in shame. This was one of the most dramatic parts of this week.

This week was very humbling. I learned that I have to work hard for results. I also learned that I've been slacking-off way too much in school. Success isn't all about being the smartest; it's about working hard and sticking to one's commitments.

Yeah, this week was pretty tough. However, I'm glad for the wake-up call. It has shown me I have to prioritize my life, and work harder in school. I'm happy that I learned so many important lessons this week.

Is it so weird

that I rock out to this song?

A return?

I'm feeling better. I may just end of using this thing after all.

Be My Baby

I think I'm going into seclusion for a while. A sort of mental hibernation. Right now, my life is so hectic and unorganized I can't seem to get anything done. I feel the need to slow my whole body down and start putting things back to where they need to be. Shuffle around a few pieces of thought. Stack things to make room. De-clutter my mind. My god, I feel so constrained under these circumstances. And while I want to feel the joy of writing again, and become passionate about my interests again, I can't seem to find my way back to it; my life is becoming one large blur without beginning or end, without focus or motivation, and void of any kind of clarity; my interests lay inarticulate in my brain while my thoughts merge into one sluggish piece of B.S.-producing slop; and because I can't seem to find time to do anything anymore, there's only one option: a complete halt of movement; a stop in mindless motion; a breather before final suffocation. I can't continue on like this. I need a change. So that's why I'm doing this. I'll see y'all later--or when I feel like posting again. Maybe I'll come back with an encyclopedia-sized catalog of new stuff. Anyways, that's all for now.

Mr. Postman

I'm sure I've listened to this song about twenty times today. I just keep hitting replay every time it ends.



I think the Beatles are equally interesting for their music as well the evolution of their careers.

Although their early career is full of catchy, popular tunes, I think the reason they're so famous and well-liked is because their music matured as they grew older. They grew with the times, their music grew with them, and the world changed with their music. It's funny to think these are the same guys who made 'Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band'. Haha, how people change, right? At the same time, I'm overwhelmed with sadness watching the young John Lennon bouncing on stage like nothing in the world could be more fun than to play 'Mr. Postman' on that stage with his friends.

It's easy for most of us to ignore the death of a person we didn't know or didn't care for, but I think John Lennon's loss has hurt us all a little bit. And we cannot forget George Harrison as well.

Involuntary Happiness

For me, the best kind of smile is the one you can't help giving. It's the kind that pulls your mouth up like magic and you feel the involuntary stretch of your face. This is the most natural kind of smile; it's a smile of pure pleasure, satisfaction, or amusement. There's no thinking; there's no force. It's as natural as our heartbeat. I see no reason for not enjoying it; it's one of the best feelings in the world. A natural pleasure. One of biology's many gifts.

Get Over Her Already

"She seems happy. I read her status updates and she's always going on about how much fun she had that day with him, you know? She just seems happy with him, and I think you're selfishness needs to stop. And even if they're not happy together, and they're miserable from head to toe everyday, you don't have any kind of right to try to be with her while she's with him. Even if you're trying to get closer as friends, your intentions are always the same. She doesn't like you in that way, can't you see that? She's not the only girl in the world. There are millions of girls like her in the world, girls you'd die to be with. She doesn't like you, and you should get over it already. You're being a dumbass trying to win her romantic affection, and your unrequited desire is not healthy. Also, if you also sincerely like her sister, then like her sister, and don't think about what you may gain by it. People have feelings and thoughts; she's her own person, and she is NOT her older sister."

That is what I'd say to my friend if I had the compassion and cruelty to break his heart.

Afraid of Losing It

recently i was cleaning my room
sweep sweep broom broom
crunch crackle crunch
I have a lot of fast food wrappers strewn on my floor

when from under a pile of dirty clothes
a realization came scurrying out
as fast as a dart of lightning
and jumped inside my jacket pocket

startled i tried to leap out of the way
but instead tripped over a pile of books
and fell backwards onto my bookshelf where
dozens of miscellaneous curios rained on my head
and landed in explosions of glass by my side

my cat asleep on the job sprung into the air five feet
landed like a ninja
and surveyed the ruckused room

after a few lengthy sniffs and perks of the ear
he lazered his sharp yellow eyes at my jacket pocket
where the fluffy epiphany sat trembling

despite the cliche
the tom and jerry fiction
there is some fact to reality
cats chase and kill like clouds breeze and rain and spin storm gray
that was no look of curiosity
but of sharp intentions and mindless instinct

how could i give over the tiny creature
to a predator
satiable only through blood
if i were it and it were me
what would we do
i thought
and concluded
exactly the same

later at the pet store
i asked if critters like it ever wore collars
so that if lost
someone could call me quickly and help me find him
the old man at the register laughed
throaty and cachinnate
as he returned my change for the hamster cage

at home i thought over the question again and again
and didn't see what was so funny
because i really was concerned about losing him
seeing a blur of fur swallowed into a pink jar
opened under yellow eyes
and gone from me forever

Names

Names change
warp
shape-shift
are erased like footprints in the tide
but that love of mine
I gave to you
now your love
cannot.

Song for Porches

At the end of the block,
a car stereo is blasting
oldies
too loudly;
the bass rattles and thumps
in monotone changes---BRRR-BRRR, BRRR!
From the corner of my eye
I catch a mechanical firefly
just over the horizon of the houses;
this moving star is blinking at me:
the passengers are saying hello,
fresh from adventure.
Kid's laughter erupts somewhere down the block,
beyond my sight.
The scrunched houses
and black asphalt
lay good acoustics,
and carry the spirited uproar
a good half mile.
Blinding headlights--car attached--
roll down the street, slowed by the night
and the playing children now being called in by their mothers.
Dogs like gnats barking at things in the dark.
I perceive the firefly again
sailing in the opposite direction—
(“Drop me a postcard! I’ll be here!”).
And finally,
I,
the porch-sitting observer,
thinking in the moment
of these things,
sit on my porch,
and revere quietly.

Day 2 (nonsequential)

Dear Crush,

I'm doing this thing where I write letters to thirty different people in my life with specific relationships to me--like my best friend or my parents, for example.

You are Day 2: Write a letter to your crush.

I've known you for about seven years. Actually, a correction: I met you seven years ago, we talked a lot the first year, then almost nothing the last six years--not even hello's.

I knew I liked you immediately. It may seem shallow to first mention looks, but that's usually the first thing most people notice about each other. It's kind of like a greeting before the greeting. The first thing you said to me before speaking was: "Look at me--I'm cute, adorable, and gorgeous." I don't think you're vain enough to say these things out loud, but you're definitely smart enough to know it. People tell you all the time how pretty you are! Every picture you post on Facebook gets comments about your beauty. This doesn't bother me much though; those people are only verifying what I know.

You're a cheerful person. I like that. You're also adventurous and love to hike. More things I like. You've got a good sense of humor on top of a sharp mind. You're kind and warm. You're loving and affection. You're friendly and you give comfort when needed. But these are things you already know about yourself.

Now I kind of dislike this letter because it seems like I'm gushing out verbal gobs of gooey, sticky emotion. I'm not trying to, really. These are just some things I've noticed about you. Feel free to correct me at any time by refusing to finish this letter.



Too late.

Day 1

To My Best Friend:

It's obvious you are my best friend, though how intimate that term implies our relationship to stand is dubious.

We are friends, no doubt; we've been friends since middle school. We became good friends, great friends, then better friends, though it wasn't until senior year of high school that we became best friends, I think. It's was just us alone at lunch, mostly you who I talked to. My shy and reserved nature almost guaranteed you'd be my best friend.

I've not had an absolute best friend, like how you see on t.v. or the movies. Though, to be honest, I don't know if those exist. Fiction or not, I've always striven to have that kind of relationship with someone. I've always had friends; I'm not one to be alone most of the time, though I've had my share of lonely times. But I've never had serious relationships--not until middle school when we formed a close group of friends with those other guys. And even though we didn't immediately connect, I think we have a stronger bond now because it took years to develop our relationship. We have a history; we have stories together. Our friendship doesn't rely on stupidity; it has a strength all to it's own. We have respect for each other, we show kindness each other. I can spill bits of my soul with sober sincerity to you and you'd accept me. It's a nice, quiet kind of respect, kindness, and love.

But that doesn't mean you don't annoy the hell out of me sometimes.

Haha.

I think I will too

30 DAY CHALLENGE:

WRITE A LETTER TO THESE PEOPLE :

Day 1 — Your Best Friend

Day 2 — Your Crush

Day 3 — Your parents

Day 4 — Your sibling (or closest relative)

Day 5 — Your dreams

Day 6 — A stranger

Day 7 — Your Ex-boyfriend/girlfriend/love/crush

Day 8 — Your favorite internet friend

Day 9 — Someone you wish you could meet

Day 10 — Someone you don’t talk to as much as you’d like to

Day 11 — A Deceased person you wish you could talk to

Day 12 — The person you hate most/caused you a lot of pain

Day 13 — Someone you wish could forgive you

Day 14 — Someone you’ve drifted away from

Day 15 — The person you miss the most

Day 16 — Someone that’s not in your state/country

Day 17 — Someone from your childhood

Day 18 — The person that you wish you could be

Day 19 — Someone that pesters your mind—good or bad

Day 20 — The one that broke your heart the hardest

Day 21 — Someone you judged by their first impression

Day 22 — Someone you want to give a second chance to

Day 23 — The last person you kissed

Day 24 — The person that gave you your favorite memory

Day 25 — The person you know that is going through the worst of times

Day 26 — The last person you made a pinky promise to

Day 27 — The friendliest person you knew for only one day

Day 28 — Someone that changed your life

Day 29 — The person that you want tell everything to, but too afraid to

Day 30 — Your reflection in the mirror

Math Isn't For Everyone

Well, shoot. I'm back where I was at the end of May. I'm facing the risk of failing my math class. Tomorrow's the final, and if I don't do well--meaning roughly an A--I'll probably fail the class. Once that happens, all bets are off on my future. I honestly don't know what will happen. In a way I'm petrified. Today I felt nauseous and my thinking was incomprehensible from the stress.

But for another reason, I'm glad. I've been feeling very stagnant lately, and I think if I do fail the class--75% chance I will--I'll take my work more seriously.

It feels like this upcoming school year will be a good one. I've got all kinds of wonderful things on my horizon in the next few years, opening vistas to a marvelous future--including getting my bachelor's and simply growing up. It seems strange to talk about my future, as if I were evaluating my life on New Years, but why should we only evaluate our future on January 1? I think we should be able to any time. Heck, we're already past the halfway mark in 2010. Can you believe it? So much is the same, yet so much has changed, and so much will change. I'm more mature. I'm no longer that kid I was fresh out of high school; I'm now that kid one year out of high school. Haha.

Anyways, sorry for that small tangent. Returning to my original thought, I just want to say I'm feeling happy again despite my lack of success in mathematics.

Oh, by the way, in case you haven' t noticed, I can't stand being under stress, which is largely why I avoid it--I'm a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. When I'm too worried, I get saaaaaaad....

Dear

You know that generic, hypothetical 5'7'' bombshell I was talking about earlier when I boldly stated I wasn't interested in relationships at the moment? Well, I was wrong.

She's 5'3''. And I've fallen--hard--for her. And you know what? I'm so glad!

Nothing's definite yet, but I've very excited about the upcoming weeks.

Opportunity

When life gives us an opportunity and we choose to accept it wholeheartedly, it's best to pursue this course of action no matter what.

That's how I feel right now. I haven't been this excited about something in my entire life, I think. I'm hopeful beyond rationale.

John Lennon--'Be My Baby'

A few thoughts

Why do I let stupid things bother me? I've been in a gloomy, irritated mood for the past few days because I'm concerned I may not be able to transfer to a university next fall, solely because I'm slacking off in the math class I'm in right now. If I don't pass this class, I'll have to retake it this fall. The deadline for applications is in November, so I won't be able to take the other, actual math class that counts towards college credit until winter at the earliest. What happens if I turn in an application and I haven't passed the class I need is certainly a mystery to me. But it's been biting me with worry for the past few days, hence the misery.

Sure, grades and school are important things because education cures ignorance--mostly--and can improve one's life dramatically in the course of a lifetime, although many people would say school is solely important because of the degree and the job opportunities it presents, which is also very important, but I don't like myself when I'm wholly concerned with getting good grades and going to a reputable school. In that state, I'm constantly nervous, always overworked by stress, and in an unhappy mood because drowning myself to school is not something I particularly enjoy doing. If I'm passionate about the subject, I'll strive to achieve greatness and will enjoy the work; but for the other classes in the other subjects I'm not passionate about, I get bored. Granted, I do have a tendency to not devote my full attention to whatever it is I'm doing, and sure, I may have a short-attention span lasting a little less than a minute and a half, but that's not the issue here. What my true question is this: how can I began to compromise my--what some may call reckless--tendency to coast through school, in an effort to become slightly more serious about my education--what some may call a more adult approach to school. And this is something I'll have to think about for a while.

But, I think I'm in a better place right now. I was in a crabby mood all day, short-tempered and irritated at the slightest thing. But then my whole family went outside to work on the yard, and my stupid burdens began to melt, just a little. I think it's because it's nearly impossible to be unhappy when one is free to enjoy the magnificence of nature. Nature, you stinkin' rock. Seriously. Who else but you can alter the entire world? Heck, you ARE the world! How cool is that? Haha. I've already made a note to myself to get outside more. Oh, and I'm also going to get serious about my writing. It's impossible for me to become a great writer if I don't practice my craft everyday. So from now on I'll be outside more, and I'll be writing more--probably at the same time too!

Lonely Nighttime Reflections

I've been feeling so lonely lately--again. I don't know what to do about it either. I often think having a girlfriend would turn my life around, make me happier, improve everything. That's not all true though. This is a problem only I can solve. All these hindrances--apathy, laziness, a lack of confidence--are my problems. Great Scott! I've got quite a bit of self-improvement ahead of me. I've got to turn my life around, and I've got to do it no matter what!

Needful Reflections

I've been in a contemplative mood today. I'm considering what it means to appreciate my life. I've also been somewhat gloomy thinking about the kind of person I am versus the kind of person I want to become. It's been a quiet day.

Jerry Lee Lewis - Whole Lotta Shakin' Going On (1957)

Simply put,

I really like this song. Also, sometimes I forget what I love. For instance, I love apples, but I'm not always thinking, "Boy, I love apples. Yup, apples are great. Apples, apples, apples." Haha. I guess it's impossible to always appreciate something, even when we really love it.


Michael Cera and Ellen Page--'Anyone Else But You'

Sleeping

Yesterday I slept for 17 hours and it felt amazing. Now I'm off to play catch-up with my math homework. It should take me around 16 hours to finish. Gah! :)

The Ramones--'Needles & Pins'

Recalling

This is another flashback post. This time the journal entry goes all the way back to December 2, 2009. Once you're done trying to remember what the heck was going on and what kind of civilization we lived in back then, consider I was a college freshmen at the time of writing. Also, I'd like to point out that I've changed a great deal since then--I've learned to love myself. Also, I grew half an inch. Haha. No, that's not true; but the whole loving myself thing is for sure! I'm a calmer, comfortable person now--at least I try hard to be. And trying counts for something, I think. I never thought college would change me so much, but I guess that's a part of growing up. Mark my words though: I solemnly swear to retain my childish sense of amazement as I grow old.


------

Originally written December 2, 2009. Posted with minor alterations.

12-02-2009

I was in public speaking class today, when a pretty girl named Grace touched my shoulder and laid her land on it enough for me to glace back and give her a reassuring smile. That touch, the warmth from her small hand, the sense of company and of not being alone, was so foreign to me that I was very startled when I first felt her hand on my shoulder. But that touch revived feelings inside my body that I had forgotten I was capable of. At the same time, I was warm and full and felt peaceful, as if something inside me had quieted. She's a beautiful girl, but it's not solely because of her hair or smile or breasts; it's because she connected with me on a level far from intellectual. It was a primal level, one I rarely feel, and I sincerely wish that was not so.

Why do they laugh without me, exclude and push me? Why do I feel so alone inside of my body?
No.
It is not true they push you away; you push them.
It is not true they exclude you; you exclude them.
No.
It is not true they laugh without you; you frown at them.
No.
It is not true they're happy without you; you're unhappy without them.

This failing facade of apathy hides nothing. My true feelings are always just below my despondent surface.

I wait for them to come. I wait for them to connect with me as I am--cheerless, mean, arrogant. I wait for them, but they never come. They never see past my exterior no matter how much I want them to. I want to be pried open like a box and show what's inside me to another human being. I want to know my innards are just like everyone else's. I want to be part of something that has joy and warmth. I want the bridge to be built, the call to be answered: I'm desperate for release, but no one's willing. They see my condition and condemn me for my fears and short comings.

Instead of the sweet, the bitter came; instead of the warm, I get the cold. When I wish for humility, an arrogant mind teaches me more hate.

Is the journey long from my island to theirs? How long will I have to swim--when I'm already inept--until I hear lifting music and see glowing lights living warmly in happy homes.

Will I even be welcomed?

Who am I to argue if they so choose to exile me back to my island, where I will die as I have lived: alone, abandoned, and empty. What do they expect of me, and more importantly, what do I truly expect from them?

But wait. Right now it's come to me why I am so far removed. They do not condemn me nearly as much as I condemn myself. They respond to me as I respond to myself: with distance, uncertainty, and contempt. As they glance at me, I feel something is amiss.

What can I do but continue on?

Change my attitude. Change my self-loathing into self-respect. Remove my thin, pathetic coverings and expose the human me.


------


That's where it ends.

When I read this entry over and over, I feel so sorry for the person writing it. I know exactly what is going through his head, every fear and every erroneous train of thought, because it was me. Will people notice this or thought flaw? Why do they talk to easily to each other when I struggle to find words in similar situations? Am I good enough for anyone to actually like my personality?

Boy, oh boy, tough questions! But not impossible to answer. It was through learning to appreciate my life and improving my self-respect that I righted my silly wrongs. Self-respect is truly a fickle thing; yet it's possible through deep introspection and lots of love. Once I learned to love myself was I capable of appreciating and loving others.

And yet, I've got a long way to go. After all, I'm only 19! Haha! I've got a whole fresh life waiting to be lived happily. :)

But here's another question: How? How does one learn to love him or herself?

I'm sorry, but I don't know how to answer that question. It's possible that every psychological human problem is intrinsically the same--not feeling loved, not feeling safe, etc. But heck if I don't believe in a cure-all remedy that's right for everyone. On the other hand, I've always felt a sincere hug, kind words, and undivided attention are good ways to help people through emotional problems. I know these seem like small trinkets of consolation, but I think they could be enough. After all, the universe, as big as it is, is made up of smaller units.

Whew, too much heavy stuff! Haha. Here's a nice little video for y'all. G'night. BAM-BAMBAMBAMBAM-BAM!

Insomnia Again

What's your favorite time of day? Is it 3 or 4 pm? Do you prefer dawn or mid morning; do you like the afternoon or midnight? Is it those few early hours of the morning--1 or 2--when the world around you sleeps, or is it when it's just getting up--5, 6, 7, or 8 am?

My favorite part of the day--at least in summer--is from 7 to around 8. This is the hour or so right before sunset. I suppose this would be considered a twilight hour, but I'm not tempted to use that word on account of it's popular association with sickly and sweaty heart-throbs, although--confession--I have read all four books. I still prefer Harry Potter.

This special hour is really the day's afterglow; it's the period when the sun is dipping below the horizon, but night hasn't yet fallen over the sky. It's the time when work is over and it feels like the earth is getting ready to rest with you.

Reasons why dusk is my favorite time of day:
1.) It's cool during this time of day; actually, it's usually cool. There are always exceptions. But normally the air starts to cool down at this time, just enough so you can wear a t-shirt and a light jacket comfortably. This environment is perfect for quiet meditation or enjoyment of nature, which leads me to my second point.

2.) The busy-body noise of the daytime work begins to quiet down, as every living being who had spent it's energy during the day is preparing itself for rest. Take a deep breath of cool air as you examine the streaking clouds and setting sun above you--I can think of few greater pleasures.

3.) Okay, this one's a bit lame compared to the others, but the reduction of traffic is enough for me to enjoy this time of day, though I'm sure many frustrated drivers out there would place this one at number one. Haha. I live in a heavily-trafficked area, having to constantly bear fleets of cars surrounding me. It's nice to drive without other people around me. Maybe this is the recluse, loner side of me talking--which is most of me--but there's a lot less stress on me when I'm the only car on the road.

That's it for now. If I think of more I'll be sure to mention them later. Then again, probably not. Haha.

Also, here's an awesome song. I dance when I hear it. Please forgive then ignore the brief nakedness of men in underwear.

Tijuana Panthers -- 'Creature'

I Love Lucy

I love 'I Love Lucy'. I remember watching dozens of episodes when I was younger. It's nearly always entertaining. Examining it from a writer's viewpoint, I just can't believe how fresh and well-written the jokes can be.

An interesting question

My professor posed an interesting question today. He asked us what a guy falling 1000 feet off a cliff would be thinking before he hit the ground. Would he be thinking, "Oh my God! Oh my God!"? Would he be swearing nonstop? Would he be thinking, "Damn, I wish that rope would have held," or maybe, "I wish I would have brought a more experienced rock climbing partner." Would his final thoughts be, "I wish I spent more time at the office." Haha. Probably not.

This got me wondering what my final thoughts would be in that situation. More than anything, I think I'd feel a great sense of regret and loss over things I could have or should have done, but because I'm a very shy, very timid person, I never strove to accomplish. Images of my future would flash wildly in my head. I'd picture the faces of girls I wanted to be with and feel regret. I'd imagine children I could have had, and places I could have gone--Japan, anyone? In those few precious moments, I'd feel a lifetime of disappointment and loss. The words running through my head? "No, no, no, no..."

Then, after all that nonsense and madness, I'd feel calm and happy. I'll be thinking--if I haven't the ground yet, haha--that I had a good life. My final thoughts before I hit the ground would be, "Yup. I'm about to die." And then I'd land. Kind of sad, sure, but I'd go out relaxed and with a collected head.

What would your final thoughts be?

What the heck was I writing?

I was skimming through my journal, looking for something interesting or amusing to post, when I stumbled across this little gem of literature dating to just under two years ago. There's no other explanation or introduction I can give, except to say I was just about to start twelfth grade when I wrote it, so please forgive my humble attempts at writing.


From August 20, 2008, with some minor revisions:

The doctor didn't look up when he walked in.

"Good morning, I'm Dr. Art Chimanski. So what seems to be the matter today, Mr. Unwyze?"
"Doc, can't you see that my entire body is square!"

The doctor gave me a once-over.

"Hmm..." softly hummed. "Well, I don't know what I can do for you. I'm the kind of doctor one goes to if there was something wrong with them, and besides having the body of a brownie, I'm not sure there's anything wrong with you."

I glared at him with sugary contempt.

"Perhaps if you told me what occurred before and after your current predicament, hm Mr. Unwyze?"

"Okay, sure doc," I said, ready to punch my breezy listener in the jugular. "So I think it began when I was in school and my math teacher told my class that we had a very important test the next day."

"I see," the doctor gently mused.
"Yeah. And so, I was real stressed because I wanted to do good, and it was on a lot of stuff that we didn't cover, like Greek linear fractions defined by zero, or something. I began studying as soon as I got home until I went to sleep; about 15 hours."

"I see," Chimanski added, mulling over either my story or last night's dinner in his brain. "So you were forced to learn large amounts of knowledge in a short period of time, inevitably due to your teacher's method of over-stimulation of his or her pupils. Quite a clear example of the quick and impersonal environment we"


That's where I stopped.It's a bit strange to go back and read my old stuff. It's even stranger to not remember having ever wrote it. But I like it nevertheless. Maybe I'll fine some more stray bits of gold in my journal I can post.

Harry Potter Alliance and decreasing world suck

John Green of vlogbrothers on YouTube talking about a nerdfighter named Esther and the HP Alliance. Click the video to find the links! :)


DFTBA!

What's up with that?

Why is my professor so enigmatic? He has two personalities: funny, story telling, relaxed guy, and dull, monotonous, and boring lecturer. How odd, right? I see him more as a stand-up comedian rather than a math teacher. He knows his stuff too. But he's just so dull; somehow he manages to elongate the three and a half hour lecture to twenty years to life.

In other news, I've been feeling really nauseated lately. I have these headaches that give me stomach aches and even sore muscles. What's worse is that my terrible condition has been causing me to suffer bouts of insomnia. I finally got some relief yesterday when I went to bed sometime around 2 or 3--the earliest time in a few days. I think it was on Monday that I stayed up until 4, tossing and feeling smothered in my bed until I got up around 1:30 and did something else. What could be the cause of all this? Stress, perhaps, from my new class. Maybe an after-effect of my illness? Or maybe it's something much more.

I've been feeling pretty lonely lately. I have my family and all, but it's not enough, sadly. It's not the kind of loneliness family can fix. It's more of a romantic feeling. I'm sure of it. But I know I'm not in a good position to be with someone. I doubt I'm mature enough to handle all that stress wrapped in some 5'7'' bomb with brunette hair and a sweet smile. No sir, nuh-uh. But my instinctive mind doesn't know that. I'm a big believer in the things science can teach us. I know that the human mind possesses primitive thoughts of starting families and passing on genes that served our ancestors well long ago, but are somewhat less crucial nowadays. Of course, it's nice for our brains to be able to process information that tells us whether we're attracted to this or that person, but sometimes it's too much. And the urge to find someone to love is overbearing and insufferable, like the most extreme of discomforts--think hot bed sheets at night nailed to sitting still for too long mixed with feelings of despair from having the flu for a few days. Yeah.

But things are good. I must say that I have more than I need. I can't complain, nor should I--at least not very much. I've been treated well. I'm lucky.

Father & Danny

"So maybe I'm getting older, and so maybe I've outgrown my childhood. So what?"

"So nothing."

"I don't recall wanting your opinion."

"So don't take it."

"Don't expect me to."

"I don't expect anything from you."

"Another derisive comment disguised as complaisance."

"So you say."

"I don't care anyway."

"Yes you do. Of course you care. You have to care."

"So you say."

"It's the truth. Now help me with this."

"Fine."

"No, grab the other end. At the same time--one, two, three."

The two briefly struggle with the awkwardly shaped object.

"You got it?"

"Yeah."

"Over there."

"Yeah."

Both: "Oophm."

"Thanks."

"Yeah, no problem."

"I'll call you again when I need your help."

"Okay."

"Tell your mother I'm not hungry, by the way. I hear her calling you to ask me."

"Alright."

He begins to leave.

"Danny."

"Yeah?"

"Take my clubs to the car, too, before we leave."

"Yeah."

He leaves.

END

So? How was your day?

My day? Well, I liked my day.

My day went smoothly, if you want to know the truth. My new class seems to be a real gut-buster. It's three and a half hours of lecture, tedious note taking, and hearing my professors dull voice.

He seems nice enough. He was, however, fifteen minutes late to class.

I always find the unfamiliar discomfort of first days amusing, especially when everyone in the class is quietly waiting for the professor to arrive or for class to start. I'm not much on talking with people, if I'll be honest. I get by fine, but I'm not one to strike up a conversation with another person.

They say a good rule of thumb for studying is devoting two hours for every one hour of class. I think that's overkill. I would never be able to study like that for six classes in a regular semester. It's not that I wouldn't have enough time; I'm just a lousy student. Haha. I'm not terrible though. I get A's with some effort; but I'm constantly slacking off and such. If you know one of those people--smart but lazy--then you know what I'm talking about; if you are one of those people, then you definitely know what I'm talking about. Sometimes I wish I wasn't like this, and I know wishing does nothing, so sometimes I command myself to become a better student. But then I realize I'd be terribly unhappy if I did that, so I resolve not to. Disappointing, I know: can't sacrifice a few moments of happiness for potentially higher gains of happiness later in life. But I look at it from a different angle: concentrate on the now-happiness so you'll always be happy--or at least you'll try. I'm not one to plan the future up to crossing the t's and dotting the i's; I'm more of a hail mary, long shot type of planner. I'm more of a, "Hey, look how bright and lovely the sun is today" or "I think I'll dance in my living room and then go give my mom a hug" type of planner. A slacker, you could say; or even a waste of potential. But like I said, I'd go crazy if my only thoughts were "study, pee break, read dull textbook, pee break, type, type, type, pee break". I'm a happy person, which I think we know by now doesn't mean I'm happy all the time--impossible!--but that I'm happy most of the time. And potential is such fickle idea. Who's to say one person has more potential than another? We all have different strengths that aren't always shown or appreciated. Because I'm a good writer, does that make me a happier, more fulfilled person than my friend Charlie, who's good at something that can't be applied to academics, like kite flying? Heck no! Charlie should fly his kite as we damn well pleases. Go Charlie, go! My point is that I'm happy with not excelling in school; I'm fine with not going to an Ivy League or top-tier University--transferring next year; I'm fine with living in modest but clean and healthy means so long as I do what I enjoy and am able to live a life I can be proud of. The truth is, I'm just fine with myself! I'm still getting a wonderful education; I'm still focusing on bettering myself through academics; I'm still getting that coveted piece of paper called a degree. I'll be fine in the future. I can't tell you what I'll be doing, how I'll be living, who I'll be hanging around, or how successful I'll be, but I can tell you I'll be trying to make the best out of any situation I'm in.

By the way, slacking-off doesn't mean not worrying or stressing over school, assignments, etc.; it means not stressing so much, and keeping things in context. I won't die if I don't turn in a paper, if I fail a class, if I trip in front of people, etc. I'm much happier appreciating my life!

Starting

I feel good. I've been sick since Monday, but I feel good today; I feel like candy. Or a breath of fresh air.

School starts tomorrow. I'm excited. I'm excited for a new start, a challenging subject--I'm taking math!--and for the future.

It's easy to get down on life, and it's hard to find strength to live happily; but if we want that happiness, we have to work. Eden doesn't exist on Earth. Eden's a place in our minds that pushes us to live as apathetic slobs; but apathy shouldn't be the final answer, I think.

Now I've lost myself. Ha. Anyway, what's up with you?

Last Nights Dream

I had a dream last night.

You were there,
and you were scared;
I was there,
and I was scared.

But what we saw scare us,
we couldn't see.

I'm still probably failing four (unimportant) classes.

I feel better. More importantly, I feel content.

I'm reading again. I only had to make the extra effort of picking up a book and reading a few lines before rediscovering how much I love it. Now I'm back into devouring books whole. I even went to Barnes & Nobles today and bought Will Grayson, Will Grayson, Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl (never read it before), and several Yu-Gi-Oh! mangas (yes, I'm a childish nerd), which I'm particularly excited to read because I've wanted to enter the manga world for a while. Right now, I'm still reading Jane Eyre--which is fantastic! It'll take me a few more days before I start to crack Anne Frank or Will Grayson, Will Grayson (I really like saying that title for some reason).

As for school, I'm happy the semester is closing. I want a fresh semester at hand and all that it entails: excitement, curiosity, and stretches of endless potential.

Tomorrow I'm planning to buy a new golf bag--a lightweight, ten or twelve club Sunday bag (I think that's what they're called; if not, then I think they're also commonly referred to as driving range bags). Since I typically play a few holes once in a while, I think owning one of these bags is a good investment. I'm tired of lugging my old, elephant-sized bag across only three holes. :p

[untitled]

A bright day. It's warm with a mild breeze.

My little brother walks beside me. He is nine; I am nine years his senior.

He chatters tirelessly. I smile and nod to acknowledge I'm listening; I'm only half-listening though. My thoughts flutter forward to what I'll be doing later-- where I'll go and who'll I'll see. The image of a smiling chestnut-haired girl lingers in my mind.

We come to a crosswalk.

"Hold my hand when we cross, kay?" I say to him. He says okay and continues chatting.

We stand at the corner for some time, waiting for our signal.

It never comes.

A sudden darkness, like a passing cloud or plane, eclipses everything. We look up. The sky is not blue, but red.

Profound silence replaces the former street sounds. People exit their cars to stare. An eerie stillness, then--an explosion of noise!

I feel myself flung into the air.

I crash onto the ground ten or fifteen feet away from where I was standing. The world vibrates around me. I become deaf in an instant. My thoughts turn into a mush. I feel encased in searing heat--dry, unbearable, toxic.

I reach for my little brothers hand. I fumble in my personal blindness until I touch someone's fingers. They're warm and dry. They're unattached from their owner.

I feel light-headed. I try moving more, but pain swarms my legs, neck, and chest. I feel stiff. I try one more time to sit up, but I can't. I'm weak and sleepy.

Unconsciousness finally swallows me.

I'm lost and I know it.

Lately, I've been feeling scared. With the passing of my first year in college, I've been noticing this irksome friend called Independence calling me more often. What will I do? Jesus Christ. What will I do for a living? How will I make money? Where will I live?

I should be completing several papers right now, along with studying for finals later today (it's 2:16 am right now). I've had three and a half days to prepare for this week of finals, yet I've done nothing. I'm completely out of it. I'm not focusing on school; instead, I'm thinking of nothing. Absolute, total nothing. What do I spend my days doing? Surfing the internet. Really, that's all I do. Hell, I don't even read as much as I would like, even though I really enjoy reading. What kind of life am I leading? I feel so aimless. I know I'm wasting huge chucks of my time; time that should be invested in making me a better person. I'm scared that I won't get back on track. Thinking of the future makes me fearful. Life is so complicated.

I think my biggest fear is that my life philosophy--enjoying life and not being concerned with money--is actually wrong. Maybe it's because I'm fortunate and live with my parents. I've never really known need or want. I've never been starving, mentally or physically. Sometimes I feel loneliness, anxiety, or stress. But aside from these things, I have very little to complain about.

I'm becoming so disenchanted learning about the world. I suppose many people like me feel this way. But what's the point, you know? The world is full of dangerous things that you can't change; it seems that bigger, deadly things that don't respond to love or humility dominate the world. I'm scared of these things. You can't live off gratitude or free-spirited love. Everything I value right now seems so pointless and removed from the life I see outside my house. A house is a place of safety and comfort, yet you can't live in it forever. I'm lost and I know it.

I think I'm dragging my feet so I don't get pushed out of the safety of the plane and free fall thousands of feet to my potential doom. I don't want out of the plane. Actually, I do. I want to jump but I'm too scared. That's a little pathetic. The ride, I know, will be fun. I know I have to eventually jump out. People who don't jump out remain stagnant shells. I don't want that. I want what everyone else wants: safety, pleasure, happiness, love, etc. The irony is that I should be afraid of not jumping and living a sad life. But when I see the world from this dizzying place, my throat clenches shut and I feel terrible.

Scared of what? What is my fear that paralyzes my growth into adulthood. What is my biggest demon? Is it loneliness? Am I afraid of not find happiness in a relationship? That I won't have a family--kids, dogs, cats, a wife, parents-in-law, etc.?

Am I afraid of finding myself insignificant? Is my self-esteem so fragile as to dissolve in view of the corrupt world? Where is my resolution to keep my chin up? Even if my chin is made of diamond, what's the point of keeping it up? I'll keep getting hit again and again. Then I'll have to hold it up only to get hit a third, fourth, fifth, sixth, etc. time? Then what? I die at the age of eight-one? With what? I scarred jaw? What's the point? Everything is a lot easier said than done. My chin is made of tissue paper.

I'm lost because I question the point of living. No, I will not end my precious life; I'm too smart for that. Neither will I convert to a religion. I've already struggled with my beliefs and have made peace for the time being. I don't believe in any particular religion. I believe there is always good in the bad and vice-versa. I've learned the universe is not black and white, or even shades of gray, but a full spectrum of colors--many of which I cannot even perceive. There is a lot I don't know, and the little bit I've learned I meekly comprehend. So what's the point of living?

Many people live on this small world, and there are many answers to this question; a question we've always struggled to answer; a question we can never definitively answer. A question many sophomoric, arrogant teenagers sit around their houses and superficially ponder and answer, and consequently, feel certified to answer on their myspaces and facebooks with statements like "music is my life. life is joy and love. sixteen years young. you don't know the shit i've been through. i've gone through so much and grown. i'm so over it." They then add lyrics to some song that's popular at the time to the effect of "we loved each so hard we could have died in each others arms that night. Our love is endless; our lives are now complete" if they are in teenage love; if not, then the lyrics would be something like: "we kissed and hugged and never wanted to stop. But now it's over and our love is never ever gonna come back. I loved you, but you didn't love me." And unfortunately for me, I'm one of these dumbass teenagers who sit around and romanticize life. We're young and don't know any better, I guess. We have too much energy. We haven't begun digging trenches or cleaning toilets yet. We still think love conquers all, when in reality it doesn't; it only mitigates the pain enough to suffer another day. That should be enough though, right?

What am I saying? I've completely lost my focus. I feel like I've lost the power to be happy. I don't feel in control of anything--except for this. I don't remember half of what I've written here, but I'll post it anyways.

She's Wonderful!

The Cycle Begins

This is not a happy story, if you want to know the truth. This is not your typical hero tale where the villain is only evil and wins throughout most of the story, and therefore you think it's over for the hero when the two face-off at the climax when suddenly, though planned in the most dramatic way possible, the villain is vanquished forever, and the whole amiable village that took good care of the hero celebrates--even that one guy who is skeptical of the hero because he is secretly jealous; yeah, even that guy celebrates the villain being vanquished. Eventually, all the little town folk and the hero and the hero's companions learn that the greatest power of all is love--and love, dear reader, lies within all us. Lovely.

No, this is not one of those stories--that, if you continue reading, you'll be assured of. This is a much more sadder tale of loss, betrayal, anguish, antipathy, and defeat. There might be some scenes or instances of brief contentment; hell, at times there are even times when the level of anguish and pain is relaxed--just a little, mind you. These things I'll begrudgingly grant you. But, underneath each of these good fortunes lies another series of miserable events, greater dejection, and moments where you go 'Damn, that sucks'; and it's true: whatever just happened in that particular scene to make you say those words out loud, and possibly in front of your parents or teacher, does suck. Lots of things in this story suck. And whatever sparkle sparkle of hope you may see in the fogged and overcast night will quickly be extinguished with great animosity--always.

I am telling you this to serve as a warning. Reader, you should, right now, stop expecting a happy ending to this novel because, well, it just isn't going to happen. Got it? Just stop. Right now. There will be no happy ending. There. The longer you delude yourself into thinking there will be one the longer you'll be miserable. And just so you know, once you start to read this story, you won't be able to stop reading until it's done, at which point you'll feel terrible because of the unhappy ending. Do you see what you got into now? Just go.
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Has my warning not sent you away yet? Fine, I concede: you may continue, if you really want to do so.
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Still?

Okay, but I warned you: let's begin.

Solid Futility

I try to scoop out the liquid essence
of your memory,
but each time I reach deep inside,
my brain is dust and my mind sits dry.
Time, apparently, has drank all of you.

Mauve Memories

These mauve memories
hibernate in my mind
like those hand-painted lilac shoes
you gave me two years ago I loved
but forgot about,
until I'm cleaning and find them in mid-January
and decide to wear them one last time before I throw them out;
except these mallow memories can never be thrown out,
but can only be forgotten
and found once again
one day in every winter
blooming in groves against the deep frigid snow.

Across the backyard lawn at the small party

I looked over at you, and I don't know if you knew I was admiring you, or if you knew I was looking at you, right at you, instead of someone else behind you, but if when our eyes struck each other and I could see the beautiful amber of your eyes set in piercing white orbs, and you could see me, a stringy, not too handsome yet not too bad looking, smart, socially inept guy sitting in solitude with his laughing friends who, though not actively searching, sometimes notices someone who could one day be his greatest confidant and life partner, his future wife and other half, his lovely girlfriend, then fiance, then wife; the only other person with whom he could talk with, really talk with, talk with beyond anything he's ever experienced, which is something he knows he could only do with a wonderful girl who loved who he was and who would love him for what he would later become once he finished grad school and left for the peace corps and came back two years later with a completely different outlook on life; who could love him on trips around the world and around the country and around the state and around the city and around the house and around the backyard as he played a goofy life, taking it as serious as it needs to be--which is not very--and only becoming a little less goofy under certain circumstances, never once forgetting to appreciate the tangible colors of reality with a deep breath and a 'thank you' sailing through smiling lips, emanating from a solid pair of lungs that live to skip through life on happy beats of invigorating gratitude; if when our eyes struck each other and you saw me admiring you, it's because at that beat of a second my heart was pulled deeper into my chest and my whole body felt as if it had fallen a hundred feet in two seconds, and I suddenly become conscious of the small breath of air I barely managed to inhale, that I would like to talk to you to get to know you better; you seem like a very interesting, funny, smart, warm, passionate and compassionate human being. But if not, if it wasn't me you were looking at, or if it was me and you're not interested, or if you aren't an interesting, funny, smart, warm, passionate and compassionate human being, then I, an average guy with an extraordinary store of love to give but who is incapable of sharing it with anyone else but his life partner, won't bother you with another glance, although I think you're missing out, really; and even though you may not want to know what a kind, funny, smart, interesting, all-around wonderful individual I am, I want you to know that I saw you tonight under clouded Los Angeles stars and beneath wide, sky-scraping palms next to dozens of buzzed people and through the loud, ripping bass of a DJ; and even though I don't know if you know, it was you--only you--I was looking at.

The Twenty-Story Monster Part 1

I have to fight it. No one has told me this. I just know.

It's about twenty stories tall and ugly and smells like rotten milk. The world around me becomes still and silent. It exhales a deep and low moan. I cover my ears before my head explodes in the upsurge of noise.

It stops but my head keeps swirling. My ears are ringing like I'd just been knocked in the head.

It bellows a huge gust of wind. It's hot, cancerous breath coils around me like a tornado. I gag as I inhale large chunks of green poison up my inflamed nose and into my lungs.

I can't think anymore. It's too hot in here.

I force every part of my body to run. Nothing happens. I push and push against the fatigue in my head and the weariness in my legs. I'm losing consciousness.

I push one more time. My nerves and muscles almost split from the force. This time, I manage to push myself out of the rushing wind and take a huge gulp of clean air.

The monster is large but fast.

It reaches down and yanks me from my arm. I feel something tear and I scream with my entire body.

I faintly hear the sound of rushing wind as I'm pulled two hundred feet up in the air in the span of two seconds. I can't feel my head anymore. My thoughts turn into paste. I'm beyond confusion; there's no relief for this.

It's holding me in front of it's face. I can't keep my eyes open. The pain spewing through my body is too much.

Only now do I realize I'm violently shaking. I'm convulsing like a madman and I can't stop.

It laughs. Honest to God, it laughs at me.

I'm pathetic. I know why its laughing. I'm a pathetic maggot and I deserve to be laughed at.

I can't fight--I'm too weak. I've been struggling too long to fight anything. I'm tired. All I want is rest.

I know I'll finally get it in a few moments though. I'm grateful it'll be over soon.

Positive People

I like positive people,
positive persons providing sunshine to our lives,
sheening fun to our drives,
and silly stamps to our life visas.

Starry Hills

It's Thursday; tomorrow's Friday--
the day for trash pick-up;
ordinary Friday,
picking it's way along the decaying rows of days.

I don't need a jacket
to walk to my cold car.
She turns her engine with a growl,
and asks for a little more rest.

Street lights like blurred memories,
headlights behind me like empty phantoms,
everything driving by, silent
as a mute t.v.

Darkness, lovable darkness,
don't remind me you come once a day;
let's spend our solitary hours
together on the empty fluorescent road.

Aren't starry hills
most beautiful
when covered in darkness?

It's dark and I'm still awake,
like I've always been,
and always will be
like the way she never was.

I enjoy to drive at night,
when streets are clear
and my burdens soft.

Childhood

Childhood is winding down,
winding down,
winding down;
childhood is winding down,
we're now adults.

To Do

What do I do when the sun blares cold nothings, and my wife always watches t.v. in a different room than me, and my kids live in their rooms, and my cat never purrs when I pet him, and my shoulders are always tense like I've been sitting down for a really long time, and my eyes are always dry and hurt whenever I open them after closing them, and my feet feel squished in plastic shoes, and my car's maintenance light is on but it hasn't broken yet, plus I only have $150 in my account, and I feel like having sex is what only a younger version of me did, and it takes me four minutes to pee when in my twenties I could do it on command, and the music I like only plays on oldie stations, and my car doesn't have gas, and my kids are assholes and my wife's ignorant, and I'm always lonely like I'm hungry?

What do I do then?

Timed Writing

This morning I took a workshop on Timed Writing. At the end of the hour, we practiced. Here was the prompt:

Many of us enjoy reading, going to the movies or just listening to stories told to us by friends or relatives. Usually, our favorite stories or movies have a strong impact on us. Write about a book, fable, or movie that has affected you. Explain why it is important to you and how it changed your life or how you think.

Here's my response:

The Harry Potter series is important to me because it sparked my interest in reading in the fifth grade, causing me to pursue my current career goal as a writer.

When I began the fifth grade, I was like most eleven-year-old students in my school: energetic, impatient, and did not particularly enjoy reading. I never bothered to read very much, which is why I did not enjoy it. I hadn't found anything to love in it. So, when my teacher began to read Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets to our class, I was not eager to listen. Fortunately for me, however, something remarkable happened: I became enamored with the characters. Harry felt like a kid my age whom I could relate with; the Dursleys were despicable monsters that I didn't mind respecting--after all, they did raise Harry, for better or for worse; Hogwarts, Harry's scholastic home and sanctuary, was just as real as my own school. Once we finished Chamber of Secrets as a class, I returned on my own time to the beginning of the series--Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. I found more to love in books by reading it. By the time I finished, I had already started the third installment. Once I finished the fourth book (at that time there were only four published), I began to hunt for more literature. Spending lazy afternoons on my blue couch in my sunny living room, I devoured hours of books throughout middle school, and once I entered the ninth grade, I began to write my own.

-----

I don't want anyone to think I didn't read at all before fifth grade, because I did. But Harry Potter was the first time I read religiously. I owe many thanks to J.K. Rowling, as well to Jerry Spinelli, Louis Sachar, Franklin W. Dixon, etc.

For me, it is everything I read and love that inspires me to write.

Earth Night

Everything is flooded through the night
as the Earth twirls in spacious darkness,
her clouded forehead cool
in the gravitas silence.

Outside My House

The air was cold outside; I puffed out a huge cloud of ice as soon as I stepped out. I felt the warmth in my chest dissolve like evaporating rain in that breath. A short walk to my car and my lungs were frost-bitten; the air was really cold outside.

Charles Manson

When we look at Charles Manson,
staring straight into his eyes,
we shudder and think to ourselves,
"This man is a wicked monster! Look at those cold eyes."
In reality, however,
there is nothing particularly cold about them.

The Ride

Our lives rush toward us
outside our windshields;
we can't wait for this time to pass.
Then, when we pass it,
we see life isn't more special up the road--
just more of the same.
We realize we make the ride special now.
But, it's too late,
because we see everything rush past
in our rear view mirrors,
as shadows of power lines run across the pavement,
resembling curved skid marks.

Hm.

I seemed to have missed four days in my posting schedule. Darn. Looks like I'll have to post more than once a day to catch up.

I think I just needed a break. I think that last poem about Jeff Goldblum kinda wore me out--in a good way, of course. I felt satisfied with my accomplishments. But I'll be getting back to writing now. I have quite a few ideas for new poems!

Man? No. Beast!

Stories of lightning, hard thunder and steel.
Jeff Goldblum, you are my mother-flippin' hero!
A chin like Roman Nero, a modern pharaoh;
Your bod is a feast for eyes--for real.
Stallion hair, wild tan eyes; when you arise,
My day, the way I embrace life, gives birth
To wings that lift and fly; my worn eyes
Do surf the Earth; there is but mirth
In this hurting world. Your rhino-thick arms
Carry my lungs like a hot air balloon
Up to the azure sky, way past the flying barns.
My breaths lay in golden oceans, festooned
In the nebulous outer space. Woe! My heart fumes
because I can't see my dear Goldblum!

Comments. It's Cinco de Mayo! Happy Cinco de Mayo!

Anonymous Me:
We're all selfish jerks. If you think you're more selfish than a normal person should be, you're wrong. That little thing each, every, and all individuals go through called being a human being that is just full of fun stuff--feeling stupid sometimes, having greasy hair, and being so selfish you usually don't care about your friends birthdays, achievements, etc.--is what makes us wonderful, wonderful animals.

The real selfish jerks are those who don't (or can't) admit they're selfish jerks because they cannot believe they are so flawed; however, I think we can eventually grow or learn to live for something other than ourselves, if you can believe it. I think that really is possible. Hang in there. And please keep posting! I really enjoy your blogs, especially your more introverted ones.

SLAPPED!

(Two men—GUY and WALT SPINDLEMAN, who is holding a briefcase—are standing next to each other, waiting for the train.)

GUY
You there.

WALT
Yes? Do you mean me?

GUY
Yeah, you. You’re the only one here, aren’t you? Do you got the time?

WALT
Yes.

GUY
What is it?

WALT
It is a quarter to six.

GUY
Oh, goddammit! I’m late, I’m late. Goddammit.

(GUY continues worrying.)

WALT
You are welcome.

GUY
Heh?

WALT
For giving you the time.

GUY
Yeah-yeah, whatever.

WALT
It is not “whatever”. In polite society we thank people for services, no matter how small.

GUY
Goddammit, I’m late. Goddammit. When’s this train gonna get here?

(GUY continues to worry. A short while passes as the two men face opposite directions. Suddenly, WALT slaps GUY in the face.)

GUY
Ow.

WALT
I beg your pardon?

GUY
You just slapped me!

WALT
I did?

GUY
Yes, you just hit me!

WALT
Are you sure it was me that slapped you?

GUY
Oh course it was you. We’re the only ones here.

WALT
Are you sure it was me?

GUY
Yes, I’m sure.

WALT
Hmm. Nope. I don’t see it.

GUY
See what?

WALT
I just don’t see me slapping you.

GUY
You did! You did slap me!

WALT
I’m sorry, but it’s just not possible.

GUY
How could you not know you slapped me? You were standing right there! You were right here when it happened!

WALT
(thinking)
Still.

GUY
Apologize to me!

WALT
For what?

GUY
For slapping me.

WALT
I shall make no apologies for a crime I did not commit.

GUY
You did commit it!

WALT
What proof have you got?

GUY
Proof? The only proof I need is knowing you slapped me.

WALT
Hm, I’m afraid that’s not good enough. That would not hold in a court of law. I should know: my brother-in-law's a lawyer.

GUY
I don’t care if it holds up in a court or if your brother-in-law's a goddam Saint Bernard. I want you to apologize right now!

WALT
I think you’re a little traumatized from being manhandled by a small slap and are remembering things differently. And, by the way, I think my sister would care very much if he were a Saint Bernard. Besides, even if I did slap you—which I most definitely did not—it would not be my fault.

GUY
What do you mean “not [your] fault”?

WALT
I mean just that. I have this condition which causes sporadic spastic twitching in this arm. Usually it simply causes my arm to jump a few inches, but once in a while, when I’m feeling particularly angry (like just now when you refused to thank me for giving you the time), it slaps people across the face.

GUY
You mean you’ve actually slapped people because of this?

WALT
Oh yes, numerous times. I’d say close to fifty by now.

GUY
Fifty!

WALT
Yes, fifty.

GUY
You’ve slapped fifty innocent people without knowing it?

WALT
I’m sure not all those people were innocent. I have met some rather rowdy individuals in my life time, I’ll have you know. Yes, now, I am certain for a fact there has been at least five uninnocent people I’ve slapped in my life.

GUY
Don’t they get mad?

WALT
Oh no, not at all. Yes, I usually explain to them my condition and then about the other people I’ve slapped. Knowing they are not the only ones to be mistreated seems to comfort them very much.

GUY
Just like that they’re not mad?

WALT
Yes, quite so.

GUY
What about the first guy?

WALT
I beg your pardon?

GUY
I mean, there must have been a first guy you slapped, right? Didn’t he get mad because he was the only one you’ve slapped before?

WALT
I assure you, there was no first man.

GUY
What do you mean?

WALT
My good sir, you don’t think I’d be so rude as to have a first man, do you?

GUY
What?

WALT
I’ve always slapped close to fifty people—no more, no less.

GUY
What the hell does that mean?

WALT
It means you’re the fiftieth or so person today I’ve slapped, if I did, in fact, slap you—which I did not—that’s been close to the fiftieth person I’ve ever slapped.

(GUY remains silent and confused. WALT slaps GUY again.)

GUY
Ow, what the hell was that?

WALT
What was what?

GUY
You just slapped me again!

WALT
This is all getting a little preposterous, don’t you think?

GUY
What the hell! I thought it was THIS arm that did the slapping?

WALT
How did you know they switch sometimes?

GUY
They switch!

WALT
Yes, that’s right. Sometimes it’s one arm, sometimes it’s the other; other times it’s neither, a few times it’s both.

GUY
Both!

WALT
Yes, that’s right.

GUY
How could it be both, then one, then the other, then none?

WALT
(laughing)
My good sir, I don’t presume to be a doctor. I am a business man by trade.

GUY
Look, are you gonna apologize for both times or not?

WALT
My good sir, you have yet to produce a fragment of evidence that I’ve slapped you a first time; stacking the claim I’ve slapped you a second time is simply ridiculousness at its most pleasurable. Besides, my arm twitch is a debilitating medical condition I am forced to live with. I shall make no apologies to that which I cannot control. I might as well apologize for the rain or sunshine.

GUY
Why don’t you just get an operation? You look rich enough. Or hell, just keep your hands in your pockets.

WALT
(indignant)
Keep my hands in my pockets! Like some sort of chim-panzee or monkey in a zoo?

GUY
Monkeys don’t even have—

WALT
I’ve never heard such a proposal! And as for an operation, I choose not to because my doctors tell me I will lose all feeling in my arms if I undergo surgery. Now tell me, what kind of operation is that? One where you are left worse afterward? What kind of quality of life would I have then? Hm? Put them in my pockets. Hhm!

GUY
(bashful)
Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.

WALT
I should think you damn well should be.

GUY
Well, I damn well am!

WALT
That didn’t sound sincere.

GUY
I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. It’s just…I’ve got a lot on my mind right now. Stuff that’s been driving me crazy, like it’s been pulling my skin right off me.

WALT
Like what? Tell me.

GUY
Like, well, uh, my wife…she’s, um…she’s, uh, going…

WALT
She’s leaving you.

GUY
No, no. She’s, um…she’s, uh…going…uh. Yes. Yes, she’s leaving me.

WALT
I see.

GUY
And now the whole house is a mess, and plus she wants everything that belongs to me. Like, for instance, my great-great-grandfather’s chessboard. It’s been in my family since the Civil War! I was actually on my way to an arrangement at the courthouse.

WALT
Divorce is never easy. Through our darkest times we must always cling to the light, and that soft bird of hope “That perches in the soul.” Emily Dickinson was brilliant, wasn’t she?

GUY
I guess you’re right. Hey, wait! You slapped me, and still haven’t apologized!

WALT
Why should I apologize?

GUY
Because you slapped me in the face—twice!

WALT
I did not! And even if I did—which I did not—it would be due to unavoidable medical reasons, I assure you.

GUY
Medical reasons my left ass and foot.
(GUY turns around. WALT looks the other direction as his foot kicks GUY in the butt.)
Ow! What the hell’s your problem!

WALT
Excuse me?

GUY
You just kicked me in the ass!

WALT
Please, do not start again. I do not know how you know about the spastic twitch in my legs, but please, I do not wish to continue listening to your wild accusations.


GUY
Wild accusations! Spastic twitch in your legs?

WALT
Yes. The spastic twitch in my upper-body sometimes switches to my lower-body. Didn’t you know that?

GUY
(GUY raises his fists.)
Okay, that’s it. C’mon, right now!

WALT
I assure you, I do not wish to fight.

GUY
I assure you I’m gonna punch you in the face!

(GUY throws a punch. WALT dodges. WALT begins to flail his arms and legs.)

WALT
My arms and legs! They’re convulsing into a fighting kung-fu stance.
(WALT’s limbs stop flailing as he settles into fighting stance.)

GUY
I don’t care if they convulse into pink shoes! I’m gonna beat your ass!

(GUY releases a battle cry. WALT follows with his. They charge. Both fists make contact with their intended targets. GUY and WALT are knocked unconscious simultaneously.

Sometime later, GUY stirs and sits up. Seeing WALT’s unconscious body, he crawls and leans over him.)

GUY
(laughing)
I guess I kicked your ass, didn’t I Mr. Kung-Fu? Told ya I would, didn’t I Mr. Twitchy Arms? I guess this makes us even now, doesn’t it Mr. Spastic Legs? That’ll teach you to mess with a real man, won’t it Mr…What is your name?
(GUY checks the nametag on WALT’s briefcase.)
Walt Spindleman. You want to know what a real man is, Walt? A real man don’t take nothing from no one; real men drink beer and win fights; real men don’t have spastic twitches that sometimes switch arms and even legs; real men get what they—
(WALT’s hand flies up and slaps GUY.)
--deserve.

END OF PLAY

Little Known Fact

Though you wouldn't know it from reading my poetry and short fiction, I'm also a playwright! I know, right? Who would have guessed! Anyway, I'm saying this because I wrote a new play last night right before I went to sleep (I was literally in my bed when I thought of the idea; I got my notebook and finished an hour later, feeling very satisfied with myself, thank you very much), and I want to share it. I don't know when I'll post it. I still have to revise it, though I don't think that should take long considering I did some of that when I typed it up this morning. It's not for school or anything either, so there's no pressure to polish it until it bleeds like I normally do with my work, although I do plan to present it during the Poetry and Fiction Club meeting this Thursday, which will be the first meeting I'll be attending. (Oh, I joined the Poetry and Fiction Club at my school.) Ah heck, I'll post it later tonight.

P.S. Thanks guys for your encouraging comments. :)

P.P.S. May 5, 2010: I just realized I already had mentioned I was a playwright. Haha, oh well. I like this post anyways.

Comments

To Anonymously Me at Anonymous Thoughts:
I agree with Haley Sue: put yourself out there. Oh course, you don't have to do anything you don't want to.

To Haley Sue at A Watermelon Dream:
I'm lucky. I have my best friends around me all the time. I guess that's a curse sometimes too. :)

I hope you finish your papers!

-------------

Today I read Walk Two Moons by Sharon Creech. It's about a thirteen-year-old girl traveling across the upper-United States with her free-spirited grandparents, telling them the story of her friend Phoebe Winterbottom, all the while maturing as a human being and healing emotional scars after her mom left her and her father and never returned. Told in an easy, poignant manner, I thought the story was touching and heart-felt, while the characters were hilariously off-beat--especially Phoebe. I would recommend this book to anyone looking for a simple, emotional book to finish in an afternoon.

I read this book, by the way, for Children's Literature, which has already become my most rigorous class. I have to finish a 5 page draft of my research paper by next week. (Sure, it's not 9 or even 5 papers like Haley Sue, but I don't think its anything to scoff at either, especially in light of demands from my other classes. But maybe I'm being too childish, though. Haha. I guess I am.)

I don't think I've mentioned the fact that my poetry class is self-publishing our work into a high-quality book. It'll be very professional-looking and organized just like any top-tier poetry magazine. I'm very excited to see my poems published in print. Even though I'm starting to view my writing as something to pour large amounts of effort in and work hard to produce, I'm still flabbergasted by the notion of writing for a living. And I might be doing it for the rest of my life! I may pay my bills with poem money. I would be able to buy a home because I rhymed 'don't' with 'won't.' Can I really make a living doing this? I don't know.

That's all for now.

P.S. May Everyday is going swimmingly. Unfortunately, I only wrote for about an hour and a half yesterday, but I'll catch up. Besides, I still have 27 more days of May! :)

First Day

Yesterday was the first day of May Everyday. (I skipped May 1 because...well, just because I thought up the idea around midnight on the first.) It went well, I have to say. I wrote two pages of some story I haven't planned, plus a few poems--one which I'll probably post in the next day. It's about cars! But not really.

I've been feeling a lot more stress recently. It's mostly the amount of work I have to do for school, but it's also the daunting task of transferring to a university next year. Even though I'm confident in my abilities, I can't help but feel overwhelmed in the face of my future. It's like I'm six and I've been riding a bike with training wheels for the past year, and now that I've got a good handle on riding, I'm expected to learn how to ride a motorcycle by next year. Well, it's not really like that; at least, I hope it's not like that. But it sure does feel that way. This feels like one of those times when taking a deep breath and sitting peacefully for a few minutes would do me some good.

I'm back.

Lately, I've been wrestling in my mind where I want to transfer to next year. I'm very lucky because I have plenty of choices, all of which are respectable schools. Living in southern California sure has it's advantageous--even though there's terrible traffic most of the time.

On one hand, there's UC Riverside, a small institution located in Riverside, surrounded by nothing, filled with little social life. On the other hand, there's UCLA, a HUGE school in Westwood, ten minutes from the beach, crowded with people, surrounded by LA society and LA traffic, with more prestige in their parking lots than a lot of schools have in their entire staff.

I'll be getting a quality education at both, that's for certain. They're roughly the same amount to attend too. (I'll most likely be living on campus.)

However, while UCLA is more distinguished, UCR has the specific major I'm most interested in--Creative Writing. And while UCLA does offer a Bachelors in English with a concentration in Creative Writing, I don't know how much I'd rather spend writing as opposed to studying English/literature.

While the area around UCLA is crowded with people and traffic, it does have more interesting things to do. Oh course, I could always drive from UCR into LA, about an hour to hour and a half drive. Or I could just live there. I'm not much of a social butterfly, though, so what's the point of going there simply for the vibrant city life? But, I don't want to be bored out my mind either. I've heard Riverside is a bit of a bore. I don't need much, though; give me a movie and ice cream once in a while and I'll be content to spend my days inside.

I don't want go to UCLA only to impress people, especially my extended family who has produced two UCLA graduates--my two oldest cousins. At the same time, I might receive a more broad and even a more respected education at UCLA as opposed to UCR.

At this point, I still have months before I have to apply. I've got too much to worry about to spend time destroying my peace arguing with myself over which top-tier education I should have. I'll choose the option that makes me happiest. That's the thing about me: I don't worry about myself too much; I'm happy to be content.

In May

I have plans for May.

I plan to write everyday in May for at least two hours, even if all my grades suffer, my eyes turn yellow and fall out, or if it kills me. It's time I stop being so gosh darn lazy and work hard for what I want. I want to be great at my career; I want to feel proud of what I do everyday of my life.

I'm calling it May Everyday because: 1.) it rhymes, and 2.) it reminds me I may or may not choose to be the best writer I can be. And I'll always choose to write.

My Followers

I am so lucky to have a follower--let alone three! Thanks guys for reading my blogs. You encourage me to continue. You take time out of your days to read what I have to say, and that's really cool. Once again, thank you.

I'll probably post something else later tonight.

The Golf Swing

The golf swing is smooth,
easy, flowing.
You don't force the swing,
or else you tense-up and the swing turns into a sort of controlled trip.

The golf swing is powerful,
weightless, balanced.
Its power comes from the hips;
you shift your body weight going through,
like swinging a baseball bat, only vertically.

Like a palm tree,
the swing is loose enough so it sways in the wind,
but strong enough so it doesn't snap in half.

The swing is calm,
peaceful, focused.
Focusing on only the swing,
ignoring all noise and movement,
the swing stops time,
until you release yourself and then it goes--high, far, easy.

Self-confidence and my voice; "You better get there before I get there."

A lot of the time, I don't feel like a poet or a writer, and consequently, I don't feel like my poetry or writing is any good.

I don't say this because I want people to reassure me my stuff is good, and to tell me all writers feel self-doubt once in a while; I really don't want people to think this is that kind of plea. I'm saying this because it's becoming a bigger problem when I write.

My biggest concern is finding my voice. If you ask me, I don't have a voice in my writing. I don't know how to find my voice either. Everything I write, from my blogposts to chicken-scratch words I write on scraps of paper, everything feels...phony. I don't remember the last time I wrote something that I've felt was really worth reading. Nothing I write comes from me. It all feels generic and uninspired and stupid.

As a student in a poetry class, I'm exposed to a bit of stuff from my peers. And although some of it is junk, there's a few people in my class who are just bad-ass poets. One in particular, whom I'll call Hydrogen, has written stuff that knocks me out. Her words, her subject matter: these things are definitely Hydrogen. There's no mistaking her voice for another. I'm astounded by how clear and comfortable her words sound, yet at the same time, how easily they seem to lay on the page.

I'm jealous, I'll admit that. I get uncomfortable when others are praised and my work is unmentioned; I'll admit that too. But these things wouldn't matter, I think, if only I were able to find my voice and keep it close to me. Keep it to remember. Keep it for keeps. I think once I'm content with my voice, I'll be happy to just write and watch as others take the spotlight.

Being an author

I want to write young adult or children books.

For the past two days, I've been reading Lois Lowry's Number the Stars, a historical fiction book set in 1943 Nazi-occupied Denmark. It follows a young girls journey of maturation as she discovers what bravery really means when she is forced to make difficult decisions in the name of saving her Jewish best friend Ellen and her family.

I immensely enjoyed this book. The simple, direct language and poignant story struck me as brilliant.

But the most astounding facet of reading was how much I enjoyed reading it. I don't remember the last time I looked forward to reading a book than when I was reading Number the Stars. And looking back on my life, this phenomenon has occurred more when I'm reading non-adult fiction than the literary classics. Paper Towns, Stargirl, and The Wonderful Wizard of Oz are clear examples that spring to mind right now. I was pleased so much by all those books that I've read them numerous times, something I rarely do with the classics (Pride & Prejudice being a clear exception).

I don't know if I'll write young adult and children books for sure; it's not like I can stomp my feet and declare "I'm writing young adult and children books for the rest of my life and I'll be successful and it'll be the most fun job that anyone ever had in the history of having jobs!" Well, I guess I could, but: 1.) it won't necessarily mean I'll be successful, and 2.) it won't mean I'd be happier doing something I've yet to discover. But I've got a good feeling about this plan. I really do. And if I decide this is not what I want to do for the rest of my life, I'll move on as easily as a marble on a greased hardwood floor.

Dangit

I missed yesterday. I swear I planned to post! I only planned to take a quick nap, really. Too bad it turned into a full nights sleep. I'll post something else later today. Right now, I'm off to do some dishes.

One shot written in a parking garage (edited from the original).

The new engine made a weird vacuum sound as Lee threw the car into fourth trying for neutral as we boogied down the highway at sixty-five. Lee mashed the brake pedal. The small Honda jerked forward, stalled, then died as our heads flew forward and cracked against the nearest hard object.

"Lee, what the fuck, man!" I said through stifling moans.
My head was swimming in blurred vision. I was afraid I had a concussion.
"What the fuck, man," I said again.
"We could've died!" Manuel added from the backseat.
"Don't be a pussy," Lee shot back. "You wouldn't have died."
"Why did you do that?" I groaned.
"What if there was another car behind us?"
"There's no one on the goddam road!" Lee rasped.
I don't know why, but this seemed like an odd thing to me to point out.

No people in their right minds would drive on the 10 at three a.m. for no goddam good reason like we were. But for a city of millions, it was surprising how lonesome things became at night, especially the streets. Thousands of miles of paved ghost towns criss-crossed each other in quiet, homesick silence. And as I thought about all this, my mind felt...slower, like I had just woken up after only four hours of sleep and life seemed more fantasy than reality.

"We still could've died, Lee."
"No, you wouldn't."
"Why did you do that?"
"I thought I saw a moren flying," Lee said, solemn.
"A moren?"
"Yeah, a goddam moren."
Manuel and I looked out the window in the starless sky and listened. The balmy air was stagnant. We saw and heard nothing.
"I don't see anything," I said.
"I though I saw one; I'm not sure if it was or not."
"Why would there be a moren here?"
"I don't know why. I just thought I saw one."
I turned back to Manuel.
"You okay?"
He nodded. "Yeah, just a little bruised from the seat belt."
I turned to Lee. His face was covered by his hands.
"You okay?"
He stayed silent. I didn't think he was crying, but there was something.
Finally, he said, "Yeah, I'm good. You?"
"Yeah," I said, though I was feeling like my whole body had been soaked in water for a few days. "I'm good."
"Good," Lee replied, looking forward.

Lee turned the car back on.
Manuel was looking sullen on the way back, flashing occasional glances out the window. Lee continued looking forward. We stayed silent all the way home.

Saturday

My friends and I went to the L.A. Festival of Books yesterday. We planned an eight a.m. departure, but my procrastination and the fact I was driving made us late by one hour. We found little traffic on the way there, except a brief hiccup on the 405 exit.

Arriving at 9:45, we wandered around the small city of UCLA trying to find free parking; however, we all knew it was beyond hopeless into the realm of ridiculous to find such parking. Throwing up my arms in frustration (not literally, though, because I was driving), I caved in and shuffled into a parking structure. A whopping $10 was my punishment.

Fresh from our adventures in parking, we walked a short distance to the actual book festival. Immediately we went to a 10:30 panel on the importance of literature upon a child's imagination with David Shannon, Pam Munoz Ryan, and Kadir Nelson. I was the one who primarily wanted to go because I had to find my professor and sign-in for extra credit. I did find her, although I never signed-in because after the discussion was over and the authors were going to sign books, I got lost and couldn't find the signing booth. I looked for twenty minutes before finally giving up. Now I hope it was enough for her to see me to get the extra credit.

Afterward, we wandered for a bit, making our way to the comics on the other side of the festival (a good quarter-to-half mile), retraced out steps to the food court in the center because I felt lightheaded from hunger, then doubled backed a final time because my friends' lunches were in my car.

We ate in the mostly pedestrian-less parking garage for half an hour, then we all took an hour nap because we were all exhausted already. I tried going to sleep, but my body couldn't relax.

Around 2 or 3, we saw the Wayans brothers, Henry Winkler, and Alicia Silverstone signing or promoting various things. The sun was hard on our faces by this time, so we sought some shade and relaxed for a bit.

The day was winding down around 4 pm, but we waited for a friend of ours who lives in UCLA to return from a trip. We waited for another hour, but by that time we were all so exhausted we decided to leave without seeing our friend and hoofed it back to my car.

The return home was far worse than the morning drive. We spent a solid hour in fifteen mile per hour traffic. We got home around 6:30, having left at 5. We had some McDonalds, then waited until 10 at my friends house before seeing Kick-Ass. I enjoyed it, but I didn't agree with my friend--who had already seen it before--who place it in his top 5 movies of all-time.

After the movies, we went back to my friends house where another one of our friends came over and they started to play 'Kings Cup'. It's drinking game where you pick a random card from a deck and have to follow the corresponding rule to that card. One rule was called Heaven; when a person draws a 7 of any suit, everybody at the table has to point to the sky. The last person to do this takes a drink.

As one who doesn't drink (or smoke), I found the game pretty fun even though I was drinking Pepsi. Most of my friends were definitely buzzed by the time I took them home. I finally came home around 3:30 in the morning, a new personal best (or worst).

I went to bed and read the last pieces of Tom Sawyer before finally sleeping off the long day. My mom reprimanded me a bit for being out so late, but I apologized; everything was fine when I woke up this morning.