Keys
11 years ago
The Night's Noises
The light has fallen; the moon arises. A man snores, unaware of his surroundings. The animals of the night appear. Critters emerge. They crawl, creeping out of their hiding holes. Ants awaken. They leave their nest, in train-like procession. A spider, its gangly limbs wandering about, towers above these peons of the micro-world. The ants shuffle forth, knowing their place. The spider looms, ready to strike. He seizes the stragglers of the pack – they go screaming into the darkness. The ants march onward. They cannot stop to mourn the martyrs, for they will be massacred at the slightest pause. Slipping by slowly, and ever so quietly, the ants, sleepless for days, search for their meal. A breadcrumb here, a dust speck there, they scavenge, sweeping the floor. Their people are starving; their children are withering away back at the nest. Their cargo weighs heavily upon their backs, but they continue. They carry their freight in silent pain, struggling to walk, but still they must return home. However, they know the spider awaits his next meal, relishing the agony the ants feel. Clenching their jaws, the gatherers scurry home, hoping the spider has had its fill for the night. Into the darkness, they go. The spider decides to have dessert. The pack leader stops. He is furious. He signals his followers. The ants ready themselves for battle. They shall not endure this tyrant’s reign. The spider must die. They drop their cargo, and charge forth. The spider yells a battle cry, and the two forces collide. Two ants are killed instantly, ripped to shreds by piercing fangs. The survivors lunge for its legs. They clamp on, desperate to fell the murderer. They are blind with rage. He shakes and squirms but the ants hold strong. The spider may be powerful, too gargantuan for resistance, but there is power in numbers. The pack leader stands tall among the carnage, directing his men. One leg falls, then the second. Soon all eight legs have been torn apart, and the spider lies down, crippled. The leader strides forward, and gives the deathblow, hitting the small of his neck. The ant struggles, cursing in his last breath, then goes rigid. They have won the battle, but there will be more bloodshed to come. From the shadows, the spider’s family comes, their eyes red, glowing in the dark. They surround the troops, thirsty for vengeance. The spiders close in, and the ant’s leader closes his eyes, ready for the inevitable.
Drunken Escapades
Here’s a story I heard from a friend a while back.
His uncle was an alcoholic. Chubby, giant beer belly, balding and rosy cheeked. He lived in a small town, and his house was on the edge of city limits, in a quiet neighborhood. To get into town, he had to take a few unlit roads, through sparsely populated areas. One night, he was out celebrating a football victory with his friends at a local bar. Had a couple shots of tequila, chased with a pitcher of Guinness. Hammered by the end of it all. Of course, through his traditional buffoonery, everyone had forgotten about choosing a designated driver. With drunken logic, he decided the easiest course of action was to drive himself home. He had an old wreck of a car, rusty and smelly. Just like him. It was back from the 70’s, and somehow it still ran, albeit with the occasional hiccup. Anyways, he gets in the car, fumbles with his keys, and starts to head home, knocking over a trashcan on the way. Leaves town, gets to the part of his inebriated journey where the streetlights end. It’s pitch black except for his single working headlight. He’s half on the road, half driving through some farmer’s field. His car begins to make a chugging noise and the engine peters out. Son of a bitch car broke down again. He gets out of the car and kicks the tires, hoping it will miraculously come back to life. A pair of headlights blare behind him. It’s a police car. The officer steps out. He’s a young guy, probably in his early twenties, and most likely a rookie.
“Is there a problem here sir?”
“Damned car just died on me.” He slurs and stumbles on his words.
“Sir, have you been drinking tonight?”
“Nu – uh.”
He then pukes all over the policeman’s shoes. The officer steps back – it’s a particularly rancid vomit. He covers his nose, and turns around to get away from the stench. But as the officer is distracted, the uncle has a brilliant idea. He decides to run to his car and make a quick getaway. The tires screech as he slams on the accelerator. The officer is cussing, screaming at the top of his lungs. He can’t hear him, too concentrated on trying to get home. Somehow, he makes it the next five miles to his house. Wonders why the officer didn’t chase after him. The neighbors are all asleep. It’s three in the morning. He drives over his lawn, pulls into his garage, and closes the door. He attempts to make it to his bedroom, but he passes out on the floor. Four hours later, he wakes up to banging on the door. His head is pounding. He has bile in his mouth. A horrible hangover. Answers the intruder angrily. “What?!?” He opens the door, only to see the officer from last night. The officer’s eyes are bloodshot. He has a vague memory of last night. All he can recall is he bumped into a policeman, and drove home afterwards. The officer sheepishly asks the uncle to open his garage. He grumbles a few words, and opens the door. The police car is there. Apparently, this dumbass was too drunk to realize that he took the wrong car. The officer had somehow resuscitated the other car, and had been looking for his uncle all night. He didn’t press any charges. He was too embarrassed.
His uncle was an alcoholic. Chubby, giant beer belly, balding and rosy cheeked. He lived in a small town, and his house was on the edge of city limits, in a quiet neighborhood. To get into town, he had to take a few unlit roads, through sparsely populated areas. One night, he was out celebrating a football victory with his friends at a local bar. Had a couple shots of tequila, chased with a pitcher of Guinness. Hammered by the end of it all. Of course, through his traditional buffoonery, everyone had forgotten about choosing a designated driver. With drunken logic, he decided the easiest course of action was to drive himself home. He had an old wreck of a car, rusty and smelly. Just like him. It was back from the 70’s, and somehow it still ran, albeit with the occasional hiccup. Anyways, he gets in the car, fumbles with his keys, and starts to head home, knocking over a trashcan on the way. Leaves town, gets to the part of his inebriated journey where the streetlights end. It’s pitch black except for his single working headlight. He’s half on the road, half driving through some farmer’s field. His car begins to make a chugging noise and the engine peters out. Son of a bitch car broke down again. He gets out of the car and kicks the tires, hoping it will miraculously come back to life. A pair of headlights blare behind him. It’s a police car. The officer steps out. He’s a young guy, probably in his early twenties, and most likely a rookie.
“Is there a problem here sir?”
“Damned car just died on me.” He slurs and stumbles on his words.
“Sir, have you been drinking tonight?”
“Nu – uh.”
He then pukes all over the policeman’s shoes. The officer steps back – it’s a particularly rancid vomit. He covers his nose, and turns around to get away from the stench. But as the officer is distracted, the uncle has a brilliant idea. He decides to run to his car and make a quick getaway. The tires screech as he slams on the accelerator. The officer is cussing, screaming at the top of his lungs. He can’t hear him, too concentrated on trying to get home. Somehow, he makes it the next five miles to his house. Wonders why the officer didn’t chase after him. The neighbors are all asleep. It’s three in the morning. He drives over his lawn, pulls into his garage, and closes the door. He attempts to make it to his bedroom, but he passes out on the floor. Four hours later, he wakes up to banging on the door. His head is pounding. He has bile in his mouth. A horrible hangover. Answers the intruder angrily. “What?!?” He opens the door, only to see the officer from last night. The officer’s eyes are bloodshot. He has a vague memory of last night. All he can recall is he bumped into a policeman, and drove home afterwards. The officer sheepishly asks the uncle to open his garage. He grumbles a few words, and opens the door. The police car is there. Apparently, this dumbass was too drunk to realize that he took the wrong car. The officer had somehow resuscitated the other car, and had been looking for his uncle all night. He didn’t press any charges. He was too embarrassed.
What makes you feel alive?
What makes you feel alive? It’s a loaded question. I’m not talking about the cheesy, clichéd stuff: roasting marshmallows by a fireside, a lover’s touch, a child’s laugh, a beautiful, sublime sunset. These are all wonderful things. But what makes you, personally, feel alive?
For me, it’s the buzz after eating a two dollar chocolate bar, after a bad day.
It’s the tea in my favorite café.
It’s the feel of pruned hands.
It’s waking up in the winter, when the cold air numbs my lips, and I can just snuggle in my blankets and forget about everything.
It’s deciding to wake up in the morning to walk to the beach and start a bonfire with a couple close friends.
It’s the chill that rises up my spine when I’m around a stranger that fascinates me.
It’s the sound of bubble wrap popping.
It’s the moment when the thunderclap hits, when I count the seconds after a lightning flash.
It’s the smell of grass the day after a storm.
It’s the look of surprise I see at an impromptu visit to an old friend.
It’s the parting handshake with a close friend, knowing it’s not “farewell”, but “see you later”.
It’s when a child beams when they finally understand a tricky math problem.
It’s being alone and laughing to the empty air remembering an old inside joke.
It’s being together with family after a tragedy, realizing I’m not alone.
It’s the catharsis I feel when I figure out that I love someone.
It’s sweaty palms, tense shoulders and flickering eyes at the uncertainty of life.
What makes me realize the world is worth a damn.
What makes you feel alive?
For me, it’s the buzz after eating a two dollar chocolate bar, after a bad day.
It’s the tea in my favorite café.
It’s the feel of pruned hands.
It’s waking up in the winter, when the cold air numbs my lips, and I can just snuggle in my blankets and forget about everything.
It’s deciding to wake up in the morning to walk to the beach and start a bonfire with a couple close friends.
It’s the chill that rises up my spine when I’m around a stranger that fascinates me.
It’s the sound of bubble wrap popping.
It’s the moment when the thunderclap hits, when I count the seconds after a lightning flash.
It’s the smell of grass the day after a storm.
It’s the look of surprise I see at an impromptu visit to an old friend.
It’s the parting handshake with a close friend, knowing it’s not “farewell”, but “see you later”.
It’s when a child beams when they finally understand a tricky math problem.
It’s being alone and laughing to the empty air remembering an old inside joke.
It’s being together with family after a tragedy, realizing I’m not alone.
It’s the catharsis I feel when I figure out that I love someone.
It’s sweaty palms, tense shoulders and flickering eyes at the uncertainty of life.
What makes me realize the world is worth a damn.
What makes you feel alive?
Carried a dead man today.
Carried a dead man today. So fucked up. The experience was not profound – rather, it was altogether unpleasant. First, he was quite fat. His gut hung through his shirt. His shorts, too small for his sausage legs. Fat billowed out. He was a man unaware of his unsightly appearance. His face was still covered by leftover food stains. I’m still in pain from the burden of his weight.
When a man is fat, most of the time, they smell. And he stunk. His t-shirt had yellow pit stains, his crotch soaked in sweat. At death, people emit foul odors. His was especially bad. All his oils, fats and excrement bubbled to the surface. I carried a fat, dead, stinky toad.
I work as a paramedic. I have to deal with all sorts of nasty things. I usually prefer the dead to the living. The dead don’t speak. I hate mothers and children in accidents. They never shut up. Moms wail, always screaming, “Save my child!” Kids cry incessantly. Quite annoying. People in pain moan. That’s comedic. I always chuckle a bit; it’s a funny sound. I hate my job, but it’s good pay.
I usually prefer a stiff than a living, breathing pile of blood and guts – which is always accompanied by lots of noise. But this lardo ruined my day. I’m outside, dicking around on my shift, when I should be “saving lives” Whatever. Earlier in the day, I’m in my ambulance, drinking my coffee and eating a sandwich. My coworker sits next to me, not a care in the world. He’s a layabout. Doesn’t give a crap about his job, waiting to get his degree so he can get out and become a doctor. A real job. Perfect person to share a cab with.
Get the call, “Dispatch, multiple car pile up at 79th and Madison. All units report.” Finish my coffee. They can wait. Once I was done, I turn on the sirens. Only fun part of the day. I race down the streets, skipping every stoplight, cutting people off. Cars frantically change lanes, trying to get out of my way. Hell, this is half the reason I took this job. Never have to pay attention to any traffic laws.
I reach the scene. Late as usual. All the paramedics frantically scurry about, “saving lives.” Hero complex I say. I go to the to the most wrecked cars, with people that aren’t gonna make it. That means all I have to do is bag and tag. Never have to talk to anyone. I go to this smashed up car, front end caved in, a real mess. Look inside, see a bloody man. He’s dead meat. I wrench the door open, hoping that he’s not breathing. But I’m shocked when I see his face. This is the asshole that was sitting behind me during the ballgame yesterday.
I was at the Yankees game. Fun year, we’re demolishing everyone. My favorite pitcher, Andy Petitte is playing. Having a great game. Yankees are up 8-1. I love baseball, it’s simple. There’s a bunch of roided up people whacking at a ball all day. Paid millions of dollars to play such a ridiculous sport. However its always fun to see them flummoxed by a good pitcher, swinging at air. Emasculated in front of a huge crowd. I love seeing them, muscles bulging, sheepishly walk back to their dugouts. Today is a good day, except for this jerk behind me. He’s a boisterous fellow, screaming chants, as if it will somehow help the team, not like they’re paying any attention. His wife is fat, just like him. Two oversized peas in a pod. She’s not interested in the game, just stuffs her face with food. I’m trying to watch the game, but this guy won’t shut up. Worst of all, he smells. Stupid fat people have no personal hygiene. He’s sweating profusely, stinking up the whole section. Inning after inning he’s shouting, blaring the same old chant over and over, like a goddamned P.E system. At first I was just annoyed, perturbed at this man, intruding on my only escape. But after the sixth inning of this nonsense, I was fuming. I tried to drink some beer, get hammered enough that this would all be a distant memory. But he had this loud reverberating voice that kept on and on. I don’t mind an iron lung, they usually fade out when the game is this lopsided. But despite the inevitable outcome of this game, he continued to scream, oblivious at the anger he evoked in me. I couldn’t help but think – if only he had a heart attack, that would shut him up. I wished he would die. I’ve never been so angry. In the end, the Yankees lost, a disgraceful collapse. Pettite gave up two grand slams before being pulled out of the game. I leave the stadium. We lost. What a shitty day.
And here I am, in front of a man I wished death upon. Wish granted. I frown. I had to lug his ass out of the car. His wife had been taken out of the wreckage and was already strapped to a gurney. I hear her cry, grieving for her husband. Usually I just ignore it. But today, that’s all I can hear. I lay the man down on the ground. Can’t take my eyes off his face. He lies there. Yesterday he was just another man. Today, he’s someone I know, dead.
I sit in my apartment, alone. Light up a joint. Today bothered me. I thought it would be just another day at the office. It’s different when you know the guy. Everyone else were just nameless faces, John and Jane Does. But this guy was fat man from the game. He ruined my day twice. But I remember his wife, unable to comprehend the loss of her husband. All I can think; if only I had gotten there sooner. His wife would have her husband. I’ve never really considered the consequences of my actions. Take a drag on the joint. Blow out plumes of smoke. I look around the apartment. I realize – I am alone. Lost. What the fuck am I doing with my life?
Get to work. Get in the ambulance. My coworker is taking a nap. We get a dispatch. He ignores it. I nudge him awake. I tell him, “Let’s go.” Slam on the accelerator. He’s stunned. This will be the first time I show up on time. But I won’t waste this chance. Never again.
When a man is fat, most of the time, they smell. And he stunk. His t-shirt had yellow pit stains, his crotch soaked in sweat. At death, people emit foul odors. His was especially bad. All his oils, fats and excrement bubbled to the surface. I carried a fat, dead, stinky toad.
I work as a paramedic. I have to deal with all sorts of nasty things. I usually prefer the dead to the living. The dead don’t speak. I hate mothers and children in accidents. They never shut up. Moms wail, always screaming, “Save my child!” Kids cry incessantly. Quite annoying. People in pain moan. That’s comedic. I always chuckle a bit; it’s a funny sound. I hate my job, but it’s good pay.
I usually prefer a stiff than a living, breathing pile of blood and guts – which is always accompanied by lots of noise. But this lardo ruined my day. I’m outside, dicking around on my shift, when I should be “saving lives” Whatever. Earlier in the day, I’m in my ambulance, drinking my coffee and eating a sandwich. My coworker sits next to me, not a care in the world. He’s a layabout. Doesn’t give a crap about his job, waiting to get his degree so he can get out and become a doctor. A real job. Perfect person to share a cab with.
Get the call, “Dispatch, multiple car pile up at 79th and Madison. All units report.” Finish my coffee. They can wait. Once I was done, I turn on the sirens. Only fun part of the day. I race down the streets, skipping every stoplight, cutting people off. Cars frantically change lanes, trying to get out of my way. Hell, this is half the reason I took this job. Never have to pay attention to any traffic laws.
I reach the scene. Late as usual. All the paramedics frantically scurry about, “saving lives.” Hero complex I say. I go to the to the most wrecked cars, with people that aren’t gonna make it. That means all I have to do is bag and tag. Never have to talk to anyone. I go to this smashed up car, front end caved in, a real mess. Look inside, see a bloody man. He’s dead meat. I wrench the door open, hoping that he’s not breathing. But I’m shocked when I see his face. This is the asshole that was sitting behind me during the ballgame yesterday.
I was at the Yankees game. Fun year, we’re demolishing everyone. My favorite pitcher, Andy Petitte is playing. Having a great game. Yankees are up 8-1. I love baseball, it’s simple. There’s a bunch of roided up people whacking at a ball all day. Paid millions of dollars to play such a ridiculous sport. However its always fun to see them flummoxed by a good pitcher, swinging at air. Emasculated in front of a huge crowd. I love seeing them, muscles bulging, sheepishly walk back to their dugouts. Today is a good day, except for this jerk behind me. He’s a boisterous fellow, screaming chants, as if it will somehow help the team, not like they’re paying any attention. His wife is fat, just like him. Two oversized peas in a pod. She’s not interested in the game, just stuffs her face with food. I’m trying to watch the game, but this guy won’t shut up. Worst of all, he smells. Stupid fat people have no personal hygiene. He’s sweating profusely, stinking up the whole section. Inning after inning he’s shouting, blaring the same old chant over and over, like a goddamned P.E system. At first I was just annoyed, perturbed at this man, intruding on my only escape. But after the sixth inning of this nonsense, I was fuming. I tried to drink some beer, get hammered enough that this would all be a distant memory. But he had this loud reverberating voice that kept on and on. I don’t mind an iron lung, they usually fade out when the game is this lopsided. But despite the inevitable outcome of this game, he continued to scream, oblivious at the anger he evoked in me. I couldn’t help but think – if only he had a heart attack, that would shut him up. I wished he would die. I’ve never been so angry. In the end, the Yankees lost, a disgraceful collapse. Pettite gave up two grand slams before being pulled out of the game. I leave the stadium. We lost. What a shitty day.
And here I am, in front of a man I wished death upon. Wish granted. I frown. I had to lug his ass out of the car. His wife had been taken out of the wreckage and was already strapped to a gurney. I hear her cry, grieving for her husband. Usually I just ignore it. But today, that’s all I can hear. I lay the man down on the ground. Can’t take my eyes off his face. He lies there. Yesterday he was just another man. Today, he’s someone I know, dead.
I sit in my apartment, alone. Light up a joint. Today bothered me. I thought it would be just another day at the office. It’s different when you know the guy. Everyone else were just nameless faces, John and Jane Does. But this guy was fat man from the game. He ruined my day twice. But I remember his wife, unable to comprehend the loss of her husband. All I can think; if only I had gotten there sooner. His wife would have her husband. I’ve never really considered the consequences of my actions. Take a drag on the joint. Blow out plumes of smoke. I look around the apartment. I realize – I am alone. Lost. What the fuck am I doing with my life?
Get to work. Get in the ambulance. My coworker is taking a nap. We get a dispatch. He ignores it. I nudge him awake. I tell him, “Let’s go.” Slam on the accelerator. He’s stunned. This will be the first time I show up on time. But I won’t waste this chance. Never again.
Flying
Bound. Legs numb. Still numb. To touch, to every sensation. I sit here confined, trapped, imprisoned. My wheelchair, my jail cell. Locked up, keys thrown away. Life sentence.
It’s been six months since the crash. To this day, I am haunted by memories of the hospital. First – that awful, sterile smell. It lingered. I look back and I can see everyone else in the hospital: amputees, burn victims, the abused; I was surrounded by suffering. And I couldn’t escape. Paralyzed. But worst of all, I remember those terrible nights. When everyone went to bed, all was silent, and I was alone with my thoughts. My head would pound from the flood of rage, from the flood of sadness, from the flood of regret. I held my head in my hands and cradled my self in the fetal position, crying to the heavens, “Why?” over and over. Again and again. It took many weeks until I could sleep soundly, until my nights were not filled with torment.
I am home, sitting. I’m by my window watching the birds flutter about. This is my pastime, my sanctuary. I listen quietly as I always do for their chirping. I hum to their melody. I don’t notice the door creak as my sister enters the room. She gently places her hand on my shoulder. She gives me a tired smile, which I can only return halfheartedly.
“Breakfast is ready, will you eat with the family?” she says. Her hand is still on my shoulder, holding me, holding on to me.
“I’m feeling well today, I’ll be there in a sec, Abby.”
“Thanks bro, see you soon.”
I nod to her, and she exits the room. I exhale. I look back out the window. The birds are gone. I can see my reflection in the glass pane. It mortifies me. My eyes are sunken, face pale, shoulders caved in. Everything looks so small and frail, not robust and vivacious – like it should be. I sigh and turn to the door.
I wheel myself into the hallway. It is a cold, long, lonely place. Reminds me of the hospital. With better decorations. It is also a difficult place for a handicapped person to navigate. Everything is precious and very breakable. Things I used to consider beautiful are now merely hazards, roadblocks and daily inconveniences. Continuing on my journey, I come to the staircase. I can smell the maple syrup and pancakes from here. My mouth begins to water. My sister seems to have cooked my favorite breakfast meal. I look down the steps, and see the deep brown hues of the mahogany, and the inlaid designs, which my feet will never caress again. I see the mountainous view this provides, my personal eavesdropping point for downstairs. I roll down the hallway and give one wistful glance back at the railing that I used to slide down as a child. I go to the elevator; there is no magic here. I can hear the machine grind and rumble as it brings me down a floor. The doors open, and my sister is there. She hugs me, and then wordlessly pushes me to the table.
Moments like these I cherish. Where speaking isn’t necessary and where bonds are sewn stronger than any word could be made. I look up to my sister’s face and smile. She has done so much for me. Sacrificed so much for me. She had just completed her bachelor’s degree when I had my accident. She immediately returned home to take care of me. Ended all job prospects. I can see by the bags under her eyes. I am nothing but a burden. She still continues to love me unconditionally, so all I can do is come to breakfast once in a while.
We wheel into the kitchen. My parents have anxious looks on their faces. They are standing. She places me at my spot at the table, and then goes to her seat. My parents take their seats. My sister passes me the pancakes and syrup and pours me a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. We all begin to eat. No one speaks. Moments like these I abhor. Our forks and knives clang against the plates, resounding through the silence. My father slurps his coffee. My mother barely touches her food. Neither gives me eye contact, too afraid to speak first.
“This is ridiculous,” my sister states. I loved my sister’s bluntness. She could assert herself when necessary. “We are a family, not the Addam's Family.”
I chuckled. Both my parents had shocked expressions at her sudden remark. My sister had a satisfied one. Everyone relaxed.
I started to enjoy my meal. To delight in the rich maple syrup, letting the flavor fill my mouth. My sister put chocolate chips in the pancakes, as a personal touch. I remember when she first tried cooking pancakes. They came out looking like records; they were so burnt. I still ate some. These pancakes have the perfect fluffiness, just the right texture and sweetness. And they don’t taste like charcoal. This is breakfast, with family, loved.
“You look good today son,” my father says.
“Yeah George, you look healthy,” my sister adds. My mother sits there mute. She took the accident the hardest in the family, the closest to the heart. The wound has not healed. She still blames herself. I can see her carry that regret. She tries to hide it with a smile, but I have that same practiced halfhearted expression. Worst thing is, it’s not her fault. She didn’t make a mistake driving that night. I wish I had the courage to tell her that none of this was her fault. But I don’t.
I’ve lost my appetite and my good mood. My thoughts turn dark.
“I’m finished, I’ll be heading back to my room,” I state. My mother looks at me, concerned.
“But you’ve barely touched your plate.” my father inquires.
“Not hungry,” I assert.
“No, you are going to finish your plate, and eat with us,” my sister counters. Her voice strains.
“I don’t feel well,” I say.
“Don’t make excuses,” she argues.
“I’m not! Do you think it’s easy being like this? Crippled? Sick all the time? It’s a miserable life! You don’t have the slightest idea do you?” I shout. I pound my fist on the table. All the plates rattle. My parents jump. Their faces are as pale as mine, eyes wide and fearful.
“Please calm down George,” my father quickly says, “and Abby, if he’s not feeling well he should just go back and rest.”
“I know what he is trying to do. It isn’t healthy if he doesn’t eat. But he’s also just being antisocial, he feels fine,” she accuses. My mother looks helpless.
“I am not lying. Do you think this is an act? Do you think I can ever get better? No. There is no hope for me!” I rage in fury.
“The doctor said you have a chance, that he saw a twitch…” my father stutters.
“That was months ago, why are you holding on to such a false hope? Can’t you see it’s just hurting everyone, especially Mom?” I start to hear my mother’s muffled sobs as she cries into her hands. My words strike my father like a blow, deflating him like a balloon.
My sister silently comes behind me and rolls me toward the elevator. She is crying.
“This was a mistake brother,” she states, “just go back to your room, please.”
Hurt the ones closest to your heart. I can’t feel. I return to my room, down the long, lonely hallway. I pass by the stairway, and I can hear my sister console my mother. My father just left for work; I heard the front door shut. I enter my room and go to the window. My sanctuary. I look to see if the birds are there to comfort me. But they are not. I punch and shatter one windowpane. Then I break all of them. My hands are bleeding, glass shards embedded in them. I am alone with my thoughts. And I hold my pounding head, thinking, “Why go on?”
I wheel into the hallway, knowing my destination. I come to the staircase and look down the peak. This is my departure from this suffering. My suicide spot. I brace myself and fling my whole body off the wheelchair, down the steps. I am flying.
I hear my sister rush to my side, screaming wildly. Everything turns dark.
I awake in a bed. I smell a sterile stench. People are moaning around me. I am in a hospital. But I cannot move my arms. Try to move my shoulders. Chest too. Can’t. Am I strapped in? I look to the left. A doctor is there. I mumble.
“Glad to see you’re awake,” he says.
“Why can’t I move my upper body?” I stammer.
“You’ve suffered major injuries from your fall, much more severe than your previous ones,” he says. I look at him with pleading eyes. “Before the fall, your spinal cord had suffered damage, but it was reversible. However, now you broke vertebrae in your neck.”
It was reversible.
“You are going to be a quadriplegic permanently. I know it’s a lot to take in. But we’ll have staff working with you on living situations,” he says.
“Where is my family?” I ask. He looks away. I repeat the question.
“They aren’t ready to see you,” he answers. I turn my head in shame and regret for my actions.
“Can I be alone for a while?” I ask.
“Of course. It’s a lot to take in at once,” he replies.
The doctor leaves the room quietly. I am alone with my thoughts. I look out the window. There are birds. Think back to when I threw myself down the staircase. For a brief instant, before gravity took effect, I was weightless. And in that fleeting moment, I joined my birds in the blue sky.
It’s been six months since the crash. To this day, I am haunted by memories of the hospital. First – that awful, sterile smell. It lingered. I look back and I can see everyone else in the hospital: amputees, burn victims, the abused; I was surrounded by suffering. And I couldn’t escape. Paralyzed. But worst of all, I remember those terrible nights. When everyone went to bed, all was silent, and I was alone with my thoughts. My head would pound from the flood of rage, from the flood of sadness, from the flood of regret. I held my head in my hands and cradled my self in the fetal position, crying to the heavens, “Why?” over and over. Again and again. It took many weeks until I could sleep soundly, until my nights were not filled with torment.
I am home, sitting. I’m by my window watching the birds flutter about. This is my pastime, my sanctuary. I listen quietly as I always do for their chirping. I hum to their melody. I don’t notice the door creak as my sister enters the room. She gently places her hand on my shoulder. She gives me a tired smile, which I can only return halfheartedly.
“Breakfast is ready, will you eat with the family?” she says. Her hand is still on my shoulder, holding me, holding on to me.
“I’m feeling well today, I’ll be there in a sec, Abby.”
“Thanks bro, see you soon.”
I nod to her, and she exits the room. I exhale. I look back out the window. The birds are gone. I can see my reflection in the glass pane. It mortifies me. My eyes are sunken, face pale, shoulders caved in. Everything looks so small and frail, not robust and vivacious – like it should be. I sigh and turn to the door.
I wheel myself into the hallway. It is a cold, long, lonely place. Reminds me of the hospital. With better decorations. It is also a difficult place for a handicapped person to navigate. Everything is precious and very breakable. Things I used to consider beautiful are now merely hazards, roadblocks and daily inconveniences. Continuing on my journey, I come to the staircase. I can smell the maple syrup and pancakes from here. My mouth begins to water. My sister seems to have cooked my favorite breakfast meal. I look down the steps, and see the deep brown hues of the mahogany, and the inlaid designs, which my feet will never caress again. I see the mountainous view this provides, my personal eavesdropping point for downstairs. I roll down the hallway and give one wistful glance back at the railing that I used to slide down as a child. I go to the elevator; there is no magic here. I can hear the machine grind and rumble as it brings me down a floor. The doors open, and my sister is there. She hugs me, and then wordlessly pushes me to the table.
Moments like these I cherish. Where speaking isn’t necessary and where bonds are sewn stronger than any word could be made. I look up to my sister’s face and smile. She has done so much for me. Sacrificed so much for me. She had just completed her bachelor’s degree when I had my accident. She immediately returned home to take care of me. Ended all job prospects. I can see by the bags under her eyes. I am nothing but a burden. She still continues to love me unconditionally, so all I can do is come to breakfast once in a while.
We wheel into the kitchen. My parents have anxious looks on their faces. They are standing. She places me at my spot at the table, and then goes to her seat. My parents take their seats. My sister passes me the pancakes and syrup and pours me a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. We all begin to eat. No one speaks. Moments like these I abhor. Our forks and knives clang against the plates, resounding through the silence. My father slurps his coffee. My mother barely touches her food. Neither gives me eye contact, too afraid to speak first.
“This is ridiculous,” my sister states. I loved my sister’s bluntness. She could assert herself when necessary. “We are a family, not the Addam's Family.”
I chuckled. Both my parents had shocked expressions at her sudden remark. My sister had a satisfied one. Everyone relaxed.
I started to enjoy my meal. To delight in the rich maple syrup, letting the flavor fill my mouth. My sister put chocolate chips in the pancakes, as a personal touch. I remember when she first tried cooking pancakes. They came out looking like records; they were so burnt. I still ate some. These pancakes have the perfect fluffiness, just the right texture and sweetness. And they don’t taste like charcoal. This is breakfast, with family, loved.
“You look good today son,” my father says.
“Yeah George, you look healthy,” my sister adds. My mother sits there mute. She took the accident the hardest in the family, the closest to the heart. The wound has not healed. She still blames herself. I can see her carry that regret. She tries to hide it with a smile, but I have that same practiced halfhearted expression. Worst thing is, it’s not her fault. She didn’t make a mistake driving that night. I wish I had the courage to tell her that none of this was her fault. But I don’t.
I’ve lost my appetite and my good mood. My thoughts turn dark.
“I’m finished, I’ll be heading back to my room,” I state. My mother looks at me, concerned.
“But you’ve barely touched your plate.” my father inquires.
“Not hungry,” I assert.
“No, you are going to finish your plate, and eat with us,” my sister counters. Her voice strains.
“I don’t feel well,” I say.
“Don’t make excuses,” she argues.
“I’m not! Do you think it’s easy being like this? Crippled? Sick all the time? It’s a miserable life! You don’t have the slightest idea do you?” I shout. I pound my fist on the table. All the plates rattle. My parents jump. Their faces are as pale as mine, eyes wide and fearful.
“Please calm down George,” my father quickly says, “and Abby, if he’s not feeling well he should just go back and rest.”
“I know what he is trying to do. It isn’t healthy if he doesn’t eat. But he’s also just being antisocial, he feels fine,” she accuses. My mother looks helpless.
“I am not lying. Do you think this is an act? Do you think I can ever get better? No. There is no hope for me!” I rage in fury.
“The doctor said you have a chance, that he saw a twitch…” my father stutters.
“That was months ago, why are you holding on to such a false hope? Can’t you see it’s just hurting everyone, especially Mom?” I start to hear my mother’s muffled sobs as she cries into her hands. My words strike my father like a blow, deflating him like a balloon.
My sister silently comes behind me and rolls me toward the elevator. She is crying.
“This was a mistake brother,” she states, “just go back to your room, please.”
Hurt the ones closest to your heart. I can’t feel. I return to my room, down the long, lonely hallway. I pass by the stairway, and I can hear my sister console my mother. My father just left for work; I heard the front door shut. I enter my room and go to the window. My sanctuary. I look to see if the birds are there to comfort me. But they are not. I punch and shatter one windowpane. Then I break all of them. My hands are bleeding, glass shards embedded in them. I am alone with my thoughts. And I hold my pounding head, thinking, “Why go on?”
I wheel into the hallway, knowing my destination. I come to the staircase and look down the peak. This is my departure from this suffering. My suicide spot. I brace myself and fling my whole body off the wheelchair, down the steps. I am flying.
I hear my sister rush to my side, screaming wildly. Everything turns dark.
I awake in a bed. I smell a sterile stench. People are moaning around me. I am in a hospital. But I cannot move my arms. Try to move my shoulders. Chest too. Can’t. Am I strapped in? I look to the left. A doctor is there. I mumble.
“Glad to see you’re awake,” he says.
“Why can’t I move my upper body?” I stammer.
“You’ve suffered major injuries from your fall, much more severe than your previous ones,” he says. I look at him with pleading eyes. “Before the fall, your spinal cord had suffered damage, but it was reversible. However, now you broke vertebrae in your neck.”
It was reversible.
“You are going to be a quadriplegic permanently. I know it’s a lot to take in. But we’ll have staff working with you on living situations,” he says.
“Where is my family?” I ask. He looks away. I repeat the question.
“They aren’t ready to see you,” he answers. I turn my head in shame and regret for my actions.
“Can I be alone for a while?” I ask.
“Of course. It’s a lot to take in at once,” he replies.
The doctor leaves the room quietly. I am alone with my thoughts. I look out the window. There are birds. Think back to when I threw myself down the staircase. For a brief instant, before gravity took effect, I was weightless. And in that fleeting moment, I joined my birds in the blue sky.
Drift Away
Wendy is sitting in her car, mentally exhausted. Between the two jobs, raising her children and this. This. She is drained, at her very limit. But she is still here, taking care of her father. Fate’s cruel twist, a father, kind, bright, loving, doting – now crippled with Alzheimer’s. She is still holding onto the steering wheel, as if she were holding onto that last bit of willpower to continue. She lets go of one hand, then the other, inhales, exhales. She is ready to see what is left of her father.
She enters the retirement home, and a familiar and foul odor floods her nostrils. She smells urine, rotten food and pine tree scent in the air. Her nostrils sting and flare at the stench. This is always an unpleasant experience. Wendy walks down the hall, ignoring the sounds, the wails, the pleads that come from passing rooms. An old lady blocks her path, mistaking Wendy for her estranged daughter. She talks with her, and listens to her sad tale. She excuses herself and continues on.
She reaches her father’s door. Breathes in, breathes out. Wendy enters and looks at her father sitting there, gazing into nothingness. She calls out to him. He doesn’t respond. She goes to his side and touches his shoulder, whispering, “I’m here, Daddy.” He gazes back blankly. She clasps her hands in grief. She still misses her father. Wendy then props him up, fixing his pillows, anything to make him more comfortable. She goes around the room and cleans up. Turns on the television to his favorite channel.
Once she has finished all her chores, she returns to her side and begins to talk to him, tell him about her week. No response. She is ready to leave and plants a gentle kiss on his cheek then looks at his face. There is no twinkle in his eye. A tear rolls down her cheek. She told herself she had stayed so strong for so long. But no more. Wendy sits down in the chair and breaks down sobbing. Wendy buries her face in her hands, and cries, for the first time in years. Not since her mother died. Not even when her husband left her. Not even when her family got evicted. She had stayed strong. But not now. This is the limit.
She feels a weak hand upon her back. She looks up, and sees her father staring intently at her. His eyes are sparkling with tears. Wendy gets up and embraces her father, a deep, longing hug. He returns the embrace. Then his grip weakens, and she can see him fading. He looks like he is merely falling asleep, resting in her arms. And so he drifts away, not in solitude, but comforted by his loving, doting daughter.
She enters the retirement home, and a familiar and foul odor floods her nostrils. She smells urine, rotten food and pine tree scent in the air. Her nostrils sting and flare at the stench. This is always an unpleasant experience. Wendy walks down the hall, ignoring the sounds, the wails, the pleads that come from passing rooms. An old lady blocks her path, mistaking Wendy for her estranged daughter. She talks with her, and listens to her sad tale. She excuses herself and continues on.
She reaches her father’s door. Breathes in, breathes out. Wendy enters and looks at her father sitting there, gazing into nothingness. She calls out to him. He doesn’t respond. She goes to his side and touches his shoulder, whispering, “I’m here, Daddy.” He gazes back blankly. She clasps her hands in grief. She still misses her father. Wendy then props him up, fixing his pillows, anything to make him more comfortable. She goes around the room and cleans up. Turns on the television to his favorite channel.
Once she has finished all her chores, she returns to her side and begins to talk to him, tell him about her week. No response. She is ready to leave and plants a gentle kiss on his cheek then looks at his face. There is no twinkle in his eye. A tear rolls down her cheek. She told herself she had stayed so strong for so long. But no more. Wendy sits down in the chair and breaks down sobbing. Wendy buries her face in her hands, and cries, for the first time in years. Not since her mother died. Not even when her husband left her. Not even when her family got evicted. She had stayed strong. But not now. This is the limit.
She feels a weak hand upon her back. She looks up, and sees her father staring intently at her. His eyes are sparkling with tears. Wendy gets up and embraces her father, a deep, longing hug. He returns the embrace. Then his grip weakens, and she can see him fading. He looks like he is merely falling asleep, resting in her arms. And so he drifts away, not in solitude, but comforted by his loving, doting daughter.
Blind Date
Henry is looking at the mirror frustrated. He has had a cowlick all day that has been bothering him. He has tried everything. Water, gel, wax, hair product. Nothing works. It sticks up and sneers at him. Today, of all days, when he has a blind date. Henry has never been suave or smooth with the ladies, or anyone for that matter. Henry is a weird man. There is nothing wrong with him; he is a nice guy. But he can’t talk to most people. A friend from college decided set him up on his first blind date eight years ago. That was a nightmare. It began and ended like a Kafka novel: poorly and then horribly. Today, a friend from work set him up with a successful businesswoman, so he cannot screw it up. But his first priority is not being late. He had learned from experience.
He is tall, thickly built, but he doesn’t carry himself like a large man. He is handsome. Some men need to maintain themselves with beauty products. Henry is ignorant of all these things. He goes to his closet to get his clothes. He lays his dress shirt, slacks, belt and tie on his bed. His chosen outfit for tonight. He looks at it and cannot believe the trouble he went through to find these clothes. He isn’t fashionable, and a very frustrated salesperson had to assist him. But the final product does look quite nice. He puts on everything except the tie. However, now he has to figure out how to tie a Windsor knot. This is quite intimidating. He looks back at the mirror. The cowlick is still there. He tries to coax it down. Nope. He looks at the clock. He has ten minutes. More than enough time. He has the instructions in front of him. Hangs aroung his neck, crosses it, then makes the knot too long. Then too short. Then too thick. Then to the right. Then to the left. Henry cannot believe how difficult tying a tie is. He looks at the clock again, realizes he is about to be late and rushes out the door.
Doris looks into the mirror. She shakes her head. Sighs. Returns to her routine. However, tonight is special. Doris has a blind date. The first time was exhilarating. Afterwards, it became frustrating. She was simply terrible at dating. At the entire process. First of all, she was never on time. Getting ready is a challenge. Understatement of the century. Second, she was just awkward with strangers. Doris never inherited the business of carrying a conversation. She was a kind woman. Just very awkward. Unfortunately, her job took up the rest of her time. A colleague set her up with a good friend. She had ended many a blind date disastrously. She would not end tonight the same way.
She looks at the clock. Plenty of time before the date. There is no way she will be late. She begins to apply her makeup. Doesn’t need much. She has delicate features and a small bone structure. She looks at her outfit then looks back on painful memories. On an aside, putting Doris in a Sak’s Fifth Avenue is absolutely sinister and should outlawed. It is cruel and unusual punishment. She was completely bewildered, lost – Doris did not inherit the shopping intuition that most women have. She ended up finding a beautiful dress for tonight: a perfect fit.
Her outfit and makeup are ready. Last but definitely not least, Doris must face her biggest mountain. She must somehow transform her genetically granted frizzy hair into a beautiful, manageable hairdo. Good luck. She begins to take a comb to it. Patience is key. However, it jams; the beast has awoken. She tries to put some hair product in it. Chemicals only worsen the situation. Back to the comb. But the beast will not let go. She tugs, and it predictably snaps, like three of her other combs this past year. Her hair a complete wreck, she attempts to take a new, stronger comb to it, but to no avail. Flustered, Doris gives in to the beast and finally decides to just take a random hat from her closet. She says to herself that she just cannot be late again.
Henry drives into the parking lot, late as per the usual. He looks into his side mirror and sighs. His cowlick still will not go down. In a last ditch maneuver, he takes a swab of spit, and attempts to pat it down. It comes right back up, like a little middle finger. Sighs. Henry slaps his thighs to calm his shaky nerves. He has screwed so many of these dates up by being this nervous. He gets out of the car, does some shakes and stretches, and walks into the restaurant.
Doris pulls into the parking lot, five minutes late, of course. She looks in the car mirror and adjusts her hat so her blind date will not be able to see her monstrosity of a “hairdo”. She does some last minute breathing exercises to calm herself down, exits the car and walks into the restaurant.
Henry looks at Doris’ charming dress, non-matching hat and bashful eyes and smiles. Doris looks at Henry’s off-center tie, cow-licked hair and shy gaze and chuckles approvingly.
They are two kindred souls, bonded instantly. They leave, arm in arm.
He is tall, thickly built, but he doesn’t carry himself like a large man. He is handsome. Some men need to maintain themselves with beauty products. Henry is ignorant of all these things. He goes to his closet to get his clothes. He lays his dress shirt, slacks, belt and tie on his bed. His chosen outfit for tonight. He looks at it and cannot believe the trouble he went through to find these clothes. He isn’t fashionable, and a very frustrated salesperson had to assist him. But the final product does look quite nice. He puts on everything except the tie. However, now he has to figure out how to tie a Windsor knot. This is quite intimidating. He looks back at the mirror. The cowlick is still there. He tries to coax it down. Nope. He looks at the clock. He has ten minutes. More than enough time. He has the instructions in front of him. Hangs aroung his neck, crosses it, then makes the knot too long. Then too short. Then too thick. Then to the right. Then to the left. Henry cannot believe how difficult tying a tie is. He looks at the clock again, realizes he is about to be late and rushes out the door.
Doris looks into the mirror. She shakes her head. Sighs. Returns to her routine. However, tonight is special. Doris has a blind date. The first time was exhilarating. Afterwards, it became frustrating. She was simply terrible at dating. At the entire process. First of all, she was never on time. Getting ready is a challenge. Understatement of the century. Second, she was just awkward with strangers. Doris never inherited the business of carrying a conversation. She was a kind woman. Just very awkward. Unfortunately, her job took up the rest of her time. A colleague set her up with a good friend. She had ended many a blind date disastrously. She would not end tonight the same way.
She looks at the clock. Plenty of time before the date. There is no way she will be late. She begins to apply her makeup. Doesn’t need much. She has delicate features and a small bone structure. She looks at her outfit then looks back on painful memories. On an aside, putting Doris in a Sak’s Fifth Avenue is absolutely sinister and should outlawed. It is cruel and unusual punishment. She was completely bewildered, lost – Doris did not inherit the shopping intuition that most women have. She ended up finding a beautiful dress for tonight: a perfect fit.
Her outfit and makeup are ready. Last but definitely not least, Doris must face her biggest mountain. She must somehow transform her genetically granted frizzy hair into a beautiful, manageable hairdo. Good luck. She begins to take a comb to it. Patience is key. However, it jams; the beast has awoken. She tries to put some hair product in it. Chemicals only worsen the situation. Back to the comb. But the beast will not let go. She tugs, and it predictably snaps, like three of her other combs this past year. Her hair a complete wreck, she attempts to take a new, stronger comb to it, but to no avail. Flustered, Doris gives in to the beast and finally decides to just take a random hat from her closet. She says to herself that she just cannot be late again.
Henry drives into the parking lot, late as per the usual. He looks into his side mirror and sighs. His cowlick still will not go down. In a last ditch maneuver, he takes a swab of spit, and attempts to pat it down. It comes right back up, like a little middle finger. Sighs. Henry slaps his thighs to calm his shaky nerves. He has screwed so many of these dates up by being this nervous. He gets out of the car, does some shakes and stretches, and walks into the restaurant.
Doris pulls into the parking lot, five minutes late, of course. She looks in the car mirror and adjusts her hat so her blind date will not be able to see her monstrosity of a “hairdo”. She does some last minute breathing exercises to calm herself down, exits the car and walks into the restaurant.
Henry looks at Doris’ charming dress, non-matching hat and bashful eyes and smiles. Doris looks at Henry’s off-center tie, cow-licked hair and shy gaze and chuckles approvingly.
They are two kindred souls, bonded instantly. They leave, arm in arm.
Battlefield
Apron at the ready. Hair net tied. Husband kicked out the door. The wife is ready for the battlefield. She steps into the warzone. The children have hungry faces. “Feed me, feed me!” they chirp. Oh, she ignores their angelic faces, for inside these offspring lay sinister intentions.
She storms the front and barrels her way through the kitchen, pushing her way through to the countertop. The brood lies down, prostrate, mouths open, proclaiming to the heavens that they are starving, wasting away. The wife begins to worry the neighbors will call the police. She dives into the pantry and takes her rations. Returns to base. She begins to furiously prepare the meal. All the while, the children drop the charade and arrange their devious plans.
Breakfast is ready, victory is in sight, but the wife cannot lower her defenses. The true battle is at hand. She brings the meal to the table. And so the war begins. Duck! A potato flies over her head, narrowly missing. One child then flanks her, and explodes the ketchup bottle. However, she is ready for this tactic and dives for cover. She finds herself in a landmine of eggs and bacon, which she just prepared. The enemy is learning.
The husband returns, having forgotten his briefcase. He comes to find a mother and her three children laughing hysterically despite the pure chaos around them.
She storms the front and barrels her way through the kitchen, pushing her way through to the countertop. The brood lies down, prostrate, mouths open, proclaiming to the heavens that they are starving, wasting away. The wife begins to worry the neighbors will call the police. She dives into the pantry and takes her rations. Returns to base. She begins to furiously prepare the meal. All the while, the children drop the charade and arrange their devious plans.
Breakfast is ready, victory is in sight, but the wife cannot lower her defenses. The true battle is at hand. She brings the meal to the table. And so the war begins. Duck! A potato flies over her head, narrowly missing. One child then flanks her, and explodes the ketchup bottle. However, she is ready for this tactic and dives for cover. She finds herself in a landmine of eggs and bacon, which she just prepared. The enemy is learning.
The husband returns, having forgotten his briefcase. He comes to find a mother and her three children laughing hysterically despite the pure chaos around them.
My 9th Grade English Teacher
Most high school classrooms are the equivalent of a state hospital waiting room, with the same tacky decorations and off-white color scheme that makes the whole room seem somehow sullied, but instead of inane magazines too often perused through, there are outdated textbooks faced with years of neglect, and instead of some minimum wage nurse who would rather be plastered by an truck than continue to deal with idiots all day, there is some minimum wage teacher who experiences exactly the same feelings. In the school schedule, the English room is mathematically labeled G1, as it is the first classroom on the first floor. (I personally believe that the room is named the first one, because it is unrivaled, perhaps willingly so by other teachers.)
However, the fabled G1, of which the whispered rumors cannot do justice, is dubbed the “Blue Room” due to its distinctive deep blue walls, modeled after Van Gogh’s Starry Night. When you enter, you step into a fantasy world rivaling Narnia, with a certain individual putting Mr. Tumnus’s dynamite personality to shame. A light aroma of incense, rich perfume and old peonies invade the nostrils, immediately lulling the visitor to a relaxed state. The room is not structured into rows and columns with tiny constrictive cubicle desks resembling medieval torture devices. Rather, the Blue Room, resembles a traditional classroom about as much as a naked mole-rat could be mistaken for an adorable tabby cat. There are no stiff wooden chairs worth about as much as a small diet coke, but luxurious woven chairs with plush padding, thick enough to lose a small child in. There are no student workstations, but glass tables with intricate metal decorations and long oak tables fit for a Viking dining hall. Bookshelves go from carpet to ceiling, filled not with textbooks, but of Russian literature, Ancient Greek epics and Deep Image poetry. The walls are decorated top to bottom with strange paintings, like a child cradling a baby pig. I mean what kind of child sleeps with a farm animal? It’s as if the artist were raised in some sort of cornucopia for strange thought (which is true considering the artist’s parents) And in the far corner, a welcoming woman sits sedately, too old to be a mother, too young to be a grandmother, of small stature and fashionable dress. The freshman shuffle reluctantly into their assigned room, sighing at the prospect of yet another year of boring English class with some square, rigid teacher. Unbeknownst to them, they are in for quite a jarring experience, for this is no ordinary teacher.
Mrs. Linzee (the artist’s mother) is an excitable, rambunctious bundle of energy, a whirling dervish of grammatical flair. She often enacts scenes from a Shakespearean play that fancies her, speaking not only the female parts, but the male parts, the children’s parts and often the family dog or the town cow. “Moo.” She doesn’t just read a short story, she embodies it. She is no longer an English teacher, but the Walter Wangerin’s Ragman, with all the wails and moans, which makes for a very awkward classroom for a room full of fourteen year olds. She can have an imaginary jousting match using just her ballpoint pen, thrusting and jabbing her way to victory over this invisible foe. Class isn’t just an education; it was an immersion into acting, an exercise in drama.
She has an uncanny ability to bring literature to life. Odysseus was no longer an odd character formulated in the imagination of some long dead Greek poet, similarly named to America’s favorite father (surname: Simpson). He was the heroic “hunk” (her choice of word) from the classical age ready to whoop up on any mythological creature that dare cross his path. Charles Dickens was no longer some old codger who wrote some brick of a book we would have eventually have been tested on. Rather, it was embedded in us that he was a master of words, a social commentator, a story teller, and a champion for the poor.
She has usual excursions into the cultures of past centuries: one day, she is depicting the fury and fickleness of the ancient Greek goddess, Hera. Another day; she is playacting as Marie Antoinette in the late 18th century. She has a childlike energy and vigor to everything she does — freshman seem like mold congealing in comparison. She has such blazing passion for her work, her hair dances like a crackling fire as she weaves between the bewildered students, rousing them from a night’s slumber still clinging to them like cobwebs during the dreaded first period.
Mrs. Linzee could make any droning exercise seem like a game worthy of the GSN . The dreaded GCE, the Grammar Competency Exam, is a forced examination by the faceless, unjust bureaucracy otherwise known as the New York education department. Are they implying that we are incompetent nincompoops? They test our knowledge of the usage of a comma splice (which sounds like a surgical term when operating on unruly punctuation). However, various wearisome grammatical terms such as “passive voice”, was no longer number 23 on a laundry list of other idiotic vocabulary we were forced to memorize. Instead, it was anything that could possibly end in the phrase “by my great-grandmother” (in which I will never forget, even if I tried). For example: The ball was hit out of the park by my great grandmother. Passive Voice. Godzilla was finally defeated and thrown into the Pacific Ocean by my great-grandmother. Of course it’s passive voice, Godzilla wasn’t thrown by anyone, my Nana chucked that oversized lizard like gum out of a car window. Number 17 on the seemingly endless laundry list: Dangling Modifier. What is that supposed to mean? The word dangling just gives a vivid picture of some hangnail or other piece of loose skin. But imagine a teacher making this statement: “I shot an elephant in my pink pajamas.” We would approach the sentence with the mindset, “Elephants wouldn’t wear pink pajamas; it would make their trunks appear chubby! (a turtleneck with green and yellow stripes is much more slimming). Perhaps only I thought like this, but it is with this insane imagery that I could recognize a dangling modifier. Ugh, the word dangling still sends shivers down my spine to this day, even as I type it.
Her obsession on iambic pentameter borders on the manic. “In sooth I know not why I am so sad”. She utters each individual word with such deliberate emphasis that when the word “Sooth” is released from her overactive declamation, the students brace themselves from her dramatic monologue on the beauty of the moment , however, the vast majority of the students are completely oblivious to the actual meaning of the word “Sooth” The best definition any of the students can conjure up is an unfortunate individual with a severe speech impediment, attempting to describe to the dentist what ails them. “My sooth!” the unfortunate patient cries out. I digress.
The breath of her knowledge is staggering. Literally. Often students are deaf to the bell as they sit mystified by the gyrations and rants of someone determined to simply teach. Perhaps, she succeeds a bit too much in her frantic quest. In the process of leaving, students swoon from the rush of various poetic devices and blood to the head, often leading to entertaining spills cushioned by a pillowy satin rug reminiscent of an exquisite imperial palace. This is a medical phenomenon, I call the “Linzee Bug” who none are immune to, and all who are privileged enough to catch are left with a refreshed, learned view on what it truly means to be genuinely passionate, with a renewed resolve, ready to take on the world, just like the teacher who shakes her fist to the skies, or in this case, the ceiling tiles, in defiant rebellion of lackluster writing.
As this year’s batch of students shuffle out, dazed and amazed, graduating to the wonderful sophomore class (anything seems heavenly compared to the horror of freshman year), they reminisce upon the exciting, dramatic, intense, usually odd, and always fun times in 9th grade English. As the 9th graders become 10th graders, the middle schoolers finally move up to high school, completely unaware of the future insanity of the next eight months. They tremble as they enter the rarefied atmosphere of the lair of Mrs. Linzee, in which so many students have been lucky enough to share the passions of a lady unhindered. So the cycle begins anew, and in the center lies a unique teacher waiting expectantly at her mahogany desk.
However, the fabled G1, of which the whispered rumors cannot do justice, is dubbed the “Blue Room” due to its distinctive deep blue walls, modeled after Van Gogh’s Starry Night. When you enter, you step into a fantasy world rivaling Narnia, with a certain individual putting Mr. Tumnus’s dynamite personality to shame. A light aroma of incense, rich perfume and old peonies invade the nostrils, immediately lulling the visitor to a relaxed state. The room is not structured into rows and columns with tiny constrictive cubicle desks resembling medieval torture devices. Rather, the Blue Room, resembles a traditional classroom about as much as a naked mole-rat could be mistaken for an adorable tabby cat. There are no stiff wooden chairs worth about as much as a small diet coke, but luxurious woven chairs with plush padding, thick enough to lose a small child in. There are no student workstations, but glass tables with intricate metal decorations and long oak tables fit for a Viking dining hall. Bookshelves go from carpet to ceiling, filled not with textbooks, but of Russian literature, Ancient Greek epics and Deep Image poetry. The walls are decorated top to bottom with strange paintings, like a child cradling a baby pig. I mean what kind of child sleeps with a farm animal? It’s as if the artist were raised in some sort of cornucopia for strange thought (which is true considering the artist’s parents) And in the far corner, a welcoming woman sits sedately, too old to be a mother, too young to be a grandmother, of small stature and fashionable dress. The freshman shuffle reluctantly into their assigned room, sighing at the prospect of yet another year of boring English class with some square, rigid teacher. Unbeknownst to them, they are in for quite a jarring experience, for this is no ordinary teacher.
Mrs. Linzee (the artist’s mother) is an excitable, rambunctious bundle of energy, a whirling dervish of grammatical flair. She often enacts scenes from a Shakespearean play that fancies her, speaking not only the female parts, but the male parts, the children’s parts and often the family dog or the town cow. “Moo.” She doesn’t just read a short story, she embodies it. She is no longer an English teacher, but the Walter Wangerin’s Ragman, with all the wails and moans, which makes for a very awkward classroom for a room full of fourteen year olds. She can have an imaginary jousting match using just her ballpoint pen, thrusting and jabbing her way to victory over this invisible foe. Class isn’t just an education; it was an immersion into acting, an exercise in drama.
She has an uncanny ability to bring literature to life. Odysseus was no longer an odd character formulated in the imagination of some long dead Greek poet, similarly named to America’s favorite father (surname: Simpson). He was the heroic “hunk” (her choice of word) from the classical age ready to whoop up on any mythological creature that dare cross his path. Charles Dickens was no longer some old codger who wrote some brick of a book we would have eventually have been tested on. Rather, it was embedded in us that he was a master of words, a social commentator, a story teller, and a champion for the poor.
She has usual excursions into the cultures of past centuries: one day, she is depicting the fury and fickleness of the ancient Greek goddess, Hera. Another day; she is playacting as Marie Antoinette in the late 18th century. She has a childlike energy and vigor to everything she does — freshman seem like mold congealing in comparison. She has such blazing passion for her work, her hair dances like a crackling fire as she weaves between the bewildered students, rousing them from a night’s slumber still clinging to them like cobwebs during the dreaded first period.
Mrs. Linzee could make any droning exercise seem like a game worthy of the GSN . The dreaded GCE, the Grammar Competency Exam, is a forced examination by the faceless, unjust bureaucracy otherwise known as the New York education department. Are they implying that we are incompetent nincompoops? They test our knowledge of the usage of a comma splice (which sounds like a surgical term when operating on unruly punctuation). However, various wearisome grammatical terms such as “passive voice”, was no longer number 23 on a laundry list of other idiotic vocabulary we were forced to memorize. Instead, it was anything that could possibly end in the phrase “by my great-grandmother” (in which I will never forget, even if I tried). For example: The ball was hit out of the park by my great grandmother. Passive Voice. Godzilla was finally defeated and thrown into the Pacific Ocean by my great-grandmother. Of course it’s passive voice, Godzilla wasn’t thrown by anyone, my Nana chucked that oversized lizard like gum out of a car window. Number 17 on the seemingly endless laundry list: Dangling Modifier. What is that supposed to mean? The word dangling just gives a vivid picture of some hangnail or other piece of loose skin. But imagine a teacher making this statement: “I shot an elephant in my pink pajamas.” We would approach the sentence with the mindset, “Elephants wouldn’t wear pink pajamas; it would make their trunks appear chubby! (a turtleneck with green and yellow stripes is much more slimming). Perhaps only I thought like this, but it is with this insane imagery that I could recognize a dangling modifier. Ugh, the word dangling still sends shivers down my spine to this day, even as I type it.
Her obsession on iambic pentameter borders on the manic. “In sooth I know not why I am so sad”. She utters each individual word with such deliberate emphasis that when the word “Sooth” is released from her overactive declamation, the students brace themselves from her dramatic monologue on the beauty of the moment , however, the vast majority of the students are completely oblivious to the actual meaning of the word “Sooth” The best definition any of the students can conjure up is an unfortunate individual with a severe speech impediment, attempting to describe to the dentist what ails them. “My sooth!” the unfortunate patient cries out. I digress.
The breath of her knowledge is staggering. Literally. Often students are deaf to the bell as they sit mystified by the gyrations and rants of someone determined to simply teach. Perhaps, she succeeds a bit too much in her frantic quest. In the process of leaving, students swoon from the rush of various poetic devices and blood to the head, often leading to entertaining spills cushioned by a pillowy satin rug reminiscent of an exquisite imperial palace. This is a medical phenomenon, I call the “Linzee Bug” who none are immune to, and all who are privileged enough to catch are left with a refreshed, learned view on what it truly means to be genuinely passionate, with a renewed resolve, ready to take on the world, just like the teacher who shakes her fist to the skies, or in this case, the ceiling tiles, in defiant rebellion of lackluster writing.
As this year’s batch of students shuffle out, dazed and amazed, graduating to the wonderful sophomore class (anything seems heavenly compared to the horror of freshman year), they reminisce upon the exciting, dramatic, intense, usually odd, and always fun times in 9th grade English. As the 9th graders become 10th graders, the middle schoolers finally move up to high school, completely unaware of the future insanity of the next eight months. They tremble as they enter the rarefied atmosphere of the lair of Mrs. Linzee, in which so many students have been lucky enough to share the passions of a lady unhindered. So the cycle begins anew, and in the center lies a unique teacher waiting expectantly at her mahogany desk.
My Childhood is Weird
I choose you... Munchlax...
Doesn't have quite the same effect as the old harmonic theme song as "I choose you, Pikachu!" I was playing a videogame (Super Smash Bros Brawl), because that's what you do in college (of course) when this strange little creature comes up that I don't recognize. I looks like what a little kid (or Keith Richards, same mental capabilities) would imagine Santa's helpers would look like... if they did some serious crack. I find out it's a Pokemon, lo and behold, and that a lot of these weird new creatures are also Pokemon from the new one, for DS. They look like they have been taken out of a Freddy Krueger movie, or rather as if the animators were just using all the rejected ideas from past ones that they said last time, "Oh, you dumbass, that's absolutely ridiculous", and are now basically saying, "F#@* it." It made me appreciate "the good old days" of Charmander, and Squirtle, such creative little names that I can still remember. (Is this a sign of nostalgia, or absolute geekiness?) Today's Pokemon names are, and this is no joke, things like "Luvdisc", where the little critter is actually just a heart on its side, with eyes and lips. Or, and I kid you not, the priceless "Licklicky" which is basically a giant tongue with a body on the side, as bonus. I dunno, I just saw these in a quick google search, and the most ridiculous things came up. It's both entertaining, and a little depressing, thinking what the next generation is getting as entertainment.
Mucha Lucha? What about the classic "Hey Arnold!" Anyone who watched that show can admit, Arnold's room was the Schizz and Helga was very creepy, rocking the unibrow.
That new Jonas Brother phenomenon? A group of supposedly guys, which is extremely questionable who care far too much about hair than anyone rightfully should. It makes one long for the days of Angry Beavers, the greatest name for a show ever. (I want to meet these old Nickelodeon cartoonists and shake their hand, and then immediately disinfect it.) Or how about Kenan and Kel? Who loves Orange soda because of that show? I know I do I do I do I doooooooo. Great quote.
Just a quick aside, I have always truly disliked Spongebob Squarepants. Even though its relatively old, and I remember it from my middle school days before I was exiled to boarding school, it is the epitome of why Americans are unable to locate basic things on a map, or respond properly when asked questions. (A little tangent, if you haven't seen Ms South Carolina be flabbergasted when asked about the dilemma with basic geography, I highly suggest you check out the youtube video.) Spongebob is like Ren and Stimpy, but even more ridiculous and unrealistic, droning and unfunny. I enjoyed the occasional Ren and Stimpy show, but I always knew that it was probably the product of a bad acid trip, and should be taken as such. But a talking sponge, whose best friend is a starfish, next door neighbor is a squid and whose boss is a crab? What the hell. We always debate over the legalization of marijuana, but with drivel like this nonsense, its basically advocating the mass injection of heroin into the masses bloodstream on a daily basis. There is no other way for anyone to possibly get anything worthwhile from the show, other than I'm sure it would be a jolly good time to be absolutely smashed and see a talking sponge that is a fry cook, karate advocate and a public nudist.
My old roommate was really into the punk scene, and for some reason he had all the old Nickelodeon songs on his computer. I was questioning his sanity when showed me that the theme songs for all those cartoons, like Doug and Rocko's Modern Life are all punk songs, a la Reel Big Fish.
I ended up watching on of his episodes of Rocko's Modern Life. Unbelievably dirty stuff. In the episode I was watching Heffer Wolf, the overweight cow, starts a nudist colony in Rocko's backyard. Just some random quotes, that one would think would be taken from an adult movie, when taken out of context.
"Just take your trousers off and join the party!"
"You shaved just for me?"
"I just dropped my pididles (This is said after Heffer sees a group of models, and walks in the room blushing. I do not know what a pididle is, but based on the context..."
In the show, there are homosexual lizard hairdressers, a naked pig Cupid, and a psychotic boss that would put the Office to shame. There is even a board game called "Spank the Monkey" I kid you not. How can these Nickelodeon people get away with this? I'm not saying it to be condemning, but you would think that someone would catch on to the fact that every other joke has a sexual innuendo? At least it's quite entertaining.
The one cartoon in retrospect that I realize was pretty lame, was Speed Racer. The plotline, if someone was just reading the script and didn't know it was a kid's cartoon, would probably think it was some insane slasher flick. Think about it. Little boy and a monkey dressed in human clothes locked in a trunk, where the driver has a speech impediment, where his lips move three times for each syllable he says? Is that not a little sketch?
All I can surmise is, if anyone bothered to read this monstrosity, if you're a guy, you're probably enjoying the memories of Ren and Stimpy basically blowing themselves up in creatively chaotic ways, and if you're a girl, are probably scratching your head at how someone could be such a dork. Although considering where I came from, it's not too much of a conundrum.
Doesn't have quite the same effect as the old harmonic theme song as "I choose you, Pikachu!" I was playing a videogame (Super Smash Bros Brawl), because that's what you do in college (of course) when this strange little creature comes up that I don't recognize. I looks like what a little kid (or Keith Richards, same mental capabilities) would imagine Santa's helpers would look like... if they did some serious crack. I find out it's a Pokemon, lo and behold, and that a lot of these weird new creatures are also Pokemon from the new one, for DS. They look like they have been taken out of a Freddy Krueger movie, or rather as if the animators were just using all the rejected ideas from past ones that they said last time, "Oh, you dumbass, that's absolutely ridiculous", and are now basically saying, "F#@* it." It made me appreciate "the good old days" of Charmander, and Squirtle, such creative little names that I can still remember. (Is this a sign of nostalgia, or absolute geekiness?) Today's Pokemon names are, and this is no joke, things like "Luvdisc", where the little critter is actually just a heart on its side, with eyes and lips. Or, and I kid you not, the priceless "Licklicky" which is basically a giant tongue with a body on the side, as bonus. I dunno, I just saw these in a quick google search, and the most ridiculous things came up. It's both entertaining, and a little depressing, thinking what the next generation is getting as entertainment.
Mucha Lucha? What about the classic "Hey Arnold!" Anyone who watched that show can admit, Arnold's room was the Schizz and Helga was very creepy, rocking the unibrow.
That new Jonas Brother phenomenon? A group of supposedly guys, which is extremely questionable who care far too much about hair than anyone rightfully should. It makes one long for the days of Angry Beavers, the greatest name for a show ever. (I want to meet these old Nickelodeon cartoonists and shake their hand, and then immediately disinfect it.) Or how about Kenan and Kel? Who loves Orange soda because of that show? I know I do I do I do I doooooooo. Great quote.
Just a quick aside, I have always truly disliked Spongebob Squarepants. Even though its relatively old, and I remember it from my middle school days before I was exiled to boarding school, it is the epitome of why Americans are unable to locate basic things on a map, or respond properly when asked questions. (A little tangent, if you haven't seen Ms South Carolina be flabbergasted when asked about the dilemma with basic geography, I highly suggest you check out the youtube video.) Spongebob is like Ren and Stimpy, but even more ridiculous and unrealistic, droning and unfunny. I enjoyed the occasional Ren and Stimpy show, but I always knew that it was probably the product of a bad acid trip, and should be taken as such. But a talking sponge, whose best friend is a starfish, next door neighbor is a squid and whose boss is a crab? What the hell. We always debate over the legalization of marijuana, but with drivel like this nonsense, its basically advocating the mass injection of heroin into the masses bloodstream on a daily basis. There is no other way for anyone to possibly get anything worthwhile from the show, other than I'm sure it would be a jolly good time to be absolutely smashed and see a talking sponge that is a fry cook, karate advocate and a public nudist.
My old roommate was really into the punk scene, and for some reason he had all the old Nickelodeon songs on his computer. I was questioning his sanity when showed me that the theme songs for all those cartoons, like Doug and Rocko's Modern Life are all punk songs, a la Reel Big Fish.
I ended up watching on of his episodes of Rocko's Modern Life. Unbelievably dirty stuff. In the episode I was watching Heffer Wolf, the overweight cow, starts a nudist colony in Rocko's backyard. Just some random quotes, that one would think would be taken from an adult movie, when taken out of context.
"Just take your trousers off and join the party!"
"You shaved just for me?"
"I just dropped my pididles (This is said after Heffer sees a group of models, and walks in the room blushing. I do not know what a pididle is, but based on the context..."
In the show, there are homosexual lizard hairdressers, a naked pig Cupid, and a psychotic boss that would put the Office to shame. There is even a board game called "Spank the Monkey" I kid you not. How can these Nickelodeon people get away with this? I'm not saying it to be condemning, but you would think that someone would catch on to the fact that every other joke has a sexual innuendo? At least it's quite entertaining.
The one cartoon in retrospect that I realize was pretty lame, was Speed Racer. The plotline, if someone was just reading the script and didn't know it was a kid's cartoon, would probably think it was some insane slasher flick. Think about it. Little boy and a monkey dressed in human clothes locked in a trunk, where the driver has a speech impediment, where his lips move three times for each syllable he says? Is that not a little sketch?
All I can surmise is, if anyone bothered to read this monstrosity, if you're a guy, you're probably enjoying the memories of Ren and Stimpy basically blowing themselves up in creatively chaotic ways, and if you're a girl, are probably scratching your head at how someone could be such a dork. Although considering where I came from, it's not too much of a conundrum.
Boy Blushing
The husband, woken by his blaring alarm, grimaces. He sits up. Hears creaks in his neck. It's still stiff. Bad accident at work a decade ago. He drags his tired feet to the mirror. All things fall apart. He sighs, and turns on the radio for the traffic report, his morning routine. His wife gets up, and goes to the bathroom for her routine. And so it goes. Like every day. Like every other day.
He looks back to the mirror and sits. His face is still masked by an ever-present frown. He furrows his brow. His face reacts, with wrinkles. As if his face were made of wax. He brings his hands up for a searching feel, and then, with deep regret, brings his hands back to his lap. He sighs; his back hunches.
The radio blares, “Seems like traffic is all backed up today. Accident on the Whitestone Bridge, multiple car pile-ups. Looks like no one’s getting through there for at least a couple hours.”
Gets back up. Changes the station to anything. Anything else. Resigns himself to a day of misery. Like every other day. And so it goes.
As he turns to go to the kitchen, his ears perk up. A song of his youth is playing on the radio. He stands there, swaying to the beat, memories flooding into him. This one song has been with him, his partner, his companion through fun times, through tough times. He remembers his prom night, his wedding night, birth of his first child, which was also at night. All the good times. He remembers the fights, the accident, the death of the second child. The bad times. And his song was there for him.
He lifts his right arm in triumphant victory. He has survived. Persevered. The song’s chorus comes; he brings his hand down and starts to strum a beautiful, magnificent air guitar. His hips start to swivel. He ignores the creaking, the cracking. They are his percussion, his accompaniment. He is the star of his own personal rock concert, hitting every note with perfect ease. But then the song begins to intensify. He knows. The upcoming guitar solo. Accident can be damned. He bobs his head to the beat, stomping his foot to provide the drums. His hands are flying up and down the fret board, shredding this air guitar. Hips are in full gyration. The song goes into its grand finale. He is a force of nature at this point, complete full-body motion. And so the song ends, the hammer falls and he jams his hand down forcefully.
The performance gets rave reviews from the lone eavesdropper. His wife chuckles. And the boy blushes.
He looks back to the mirror and sits. His face is still masked by an ever-present frown. He furrows his brow. His face reacts, with wrinkles. As if his face were made of wax. He brings his hands up for a searching feel, and then, with deep regret, brings his hands back to his lap. He sighs; his back hunches.
The radio blares, “Seems like traffic is all backed up today. Accident on the Whitestone Bridge, multiple car pile-ups. Looks like no one’s getting through there for at least a couple hours.”
Gets back up. Changes the station to anything. Anything else. Resigns himself to a day of misery. Like every other day. And so it goes.
As he turns to go to the kitchen, his ears perk up. A song of his youth is playing on the radio. He stands there, swaying to the beat, memories flooding into him. This one song has been with him, his partner, his companion through fun times, through tough times. He remembers his prom night, his wedding night, birth of his first child, which was also at night. All the good times. He remembers the fights, the accident, the death of the second child. The bad times. And his song was there for him.
He lifts his right arm in triumphant victory. He has survived. Persevered. The song’s chorus comes; he brings his hand down and starts to strum a beautiful, magnificent air guitar. His hips start to swivel. He ignores the creaking, the cracking. They are his percussion, his accompaniment. He is the star of his own personal rock concert, hitting every note with perfect ease. But then the song begins to intensify. He knows. The upcoming guitar solo. Accident can be damned. He bobs his head to the beat, stomping his foot to provide the drums. His hands are flying up and down the fret board, shredding this air guitar. Hips are in full gyration. The song goes into its grand finale. He is a force of nature at this point, complete full-body motion. And so the song ends, the hammer falls and he jams his hand down forcefully.
The performance gets rave reviews from the lone eavesdropper. His wife chuckles. And the boy blushes.
This morning, another weird dream, sigh...
This morning, I was reading the Decameron, and its introduction, which is blazingly boring, like reading a 14th century feminist literature book. I decided to take a catnap. I had the weirdest fucking dream ever. Which is pretty much par for the course for me.
I had this dream where I was in the deep-south competing in the strangest competition. The announcer had a deep stereotypical drawl, but with a derogatory, “I married my sister and raped your dog” sound. Ewww. The competition was set up where there was a gigantic t-shirt launcher, almost like a cannon, which fired wet, soggy beanbag chairs. The main competitors were extremely obese southerners who wore flannel shirts with all the buttons undone because their beer bellies were so big. And me, for some inexplicable reason. I came after the main champ, the fattest, nastiest, smelliest one, wearing a white shirt, two sizes, two small, with deep yellow stains in his armpits, a day old shave that looked a month old, and a mullet. A freaking mullet. The cannon would launch these beanbags, and the competitor would stand across a field and basically chest palm it, and then deposit it into a garbage pail. He set the record for a dozen bags deposited. He proceeded to have cardiac arrest, which he cured with a barbeque sandwich.
It was finally my turn. The beanbag rocketed through the sky at a frightening velocity. I attempted to track it with my eyes, still bewildered to how I got myself into this situation, unaware it is but a dream. It went into its downward projection, and I opened my arms and let out a bestial scream, which sounded more like a mouse roaring at drywall. The bag hit me full on, and I did a backwards somersault, and lay prone for about thirty seconds. I thought my entire ribcage and sternum just exploded. I crawled to the garbage pail and deposited my prize. One. I gave a wave to the announcer signaling my submission.
“Pussy!” he barks in his drawl. I weakly lift a middle finger, then I passed out with multiple fractures, also shamefully in last place, completely emasculated.
This is how I start my fucking morning, to every single southern stereotype, and virtually neutered. LadeedoodeefuckingDA. Skipping on my heels now.
I had this dream where I was in the deep-south competing in the strangest competition. The announcer had a deep stereotypical drawl, but with a derogatory, “I married my sister and raped your dog” sound. Ewww. The competition was set up where there was a gigantic t-shirt launcher, almost like a cannon, which fired wet, soggy beanbag chairs. The main competitors were extremely obese southerners who wore flannel shirts with all the buttons undone because their beer bellies were so big. And me, for some inexplicable reason. I came after the main champ, the fattest, nastiest, smelliest one, wearing a white shirt, two sizes, two small, with deep yellow stains in his armpits, a day old shave that looked a month old, and a mullet. A freaking mullet. The cannon would launch these beanbags, and the competitor would stand across a field and basically chest palm it, and then deposit it into a garbage pail. He set the record for a dozen bags deposited. He proceeded to have cardiac arrest, which he cured with a barbeque sandwich.
It was finally my turn. The beanbag rocketed through the sky at a frightening velocity. I attempted to track it with my eyes, still bewildered to how I got myself into this situation, unaware it is but a dream. It went into its downward projection, and I opened my arms and let out a bestial scream, which sounded more like a mouse roaring at drywall. The bag hit me full on, and I did a backwards somersault, and lay prone for about thirty seconds. I thought my entire ribcage and sternum just exploded. I crawled to the garbage pail and deposited my prize. One. I gave a wave to the announcer signaling my submission.
“Pussy!” he barks in his drawl. I weakly lift a middle finger, then I passed out with multiple fractures, also shamefully in last place, completely emasculated.
This is how I start my fucking morning, to every single southern stereotype, and virtually neutered. LadeedoodeefuckingDA. Skipping on my heels now.
Random Thoughts from My Daily Amusement
My mind
I love my internal narrator with his silky smooth voice. I think Barry White is the spokesman for my conscience.
Cascade
My uncle taught me an interesting way how to remove anthills. Put a couple drops of Cascade dishwasher fluid near an anthill, and the worker ants will bring it back to the colony, where it will poison and kill EVERYTHING. How sinister and nefarious.
Sports Illustrated
I do believe I am the only straight man on the planet who gets the Sports Illustrated: Swimsuit Edition for the articles. I swear, some of the women in those issues are terrifying. In this recent one, one of them had a Michael Strahan gap between her teeth... ewwww
CURSES
Curse you shaving mishap in the nether regions of my body. I would make a forest fire joke, but in lieu of the recent forest fires in Australia and California, it would most likely cause my imminent departure to hell. Or a job offer as a writer for South Park.
I love my internal narrator with his silky smooth voice. I think Barry White is the spokesman for my conscience.
Cascade
My uncle taught me an interesting way how to remove anthills. Put a couple drops of Cascade dishwasher fluid near an anthill, and the worker ants will bring it back to the colony, where it will poison and kill EVERYTHING. How sinister and nefarious.
Sports Illustrated
I do believe I am the only straight man on the planet who gets the Sports Illustrated: Swimsuit Edition for the articles. I swear, some of the women in those issues are terrifying. In this recent one, one of them had a Michael Strahan gap between her teeth... ewwww
CURSES
Curse you shaving mishap in the nether regions of my body. I would make a forest fire joke, but in lieu of the recent forest fires in Australia and California, it would most likely cause my imminent departure to hell. Or a job offer as a writer for South Park.
Regret.
Throughout my vast, illustrious writing career of twelve years, eleven of which have been unduly forced upon me by cruel, apathetic teachers/drill sergeants, there has been a single piece of literature that I have created that has caused cascades of self loathing, frequent recurring nightmares and general disgust; I must confess, I wrote an emo poem once. Just once. And I deeply regret it with the entirety of my being. To define an emo poem, it is the type of poem written by people with porcupine hair, who are allergic to sunlight and generally spend twenty-two of the twenty-four hours of the day brooding. The other two are for styling their hair. It is a poem drenched in whininess, purposeless, and will guarantee to make a person’s day worse.
This assignment is an attempt to find any redeeming factor, anything I learned from writing something I am so ashamed of. First and foremost, I learned to never write after a catastrophic Valentines Day. Secondly, I will never write a poem in the dark ever again. Lastly, before I scrub the rest of this experience from my memory, I learned poetry should be used to convey a significant image or concept, not to rant. That’s what a blog is for.
What is emo poetry worth? Very little. It can be a good example for what poetry should never resemble. It serves as a voice for not for those without a voice, but those who should never be heard. It’s useful for making a horrendous day incrementally worse. It is a good/horrifying experience for a writer; it is incredibly self-revealing, the more one actually begins to seriously write like an angry adolescent is when one should find a new profession. However, if taken in jest, it is a wonderful tool to scare relatives.
This assignment is an attempt to find any redeeming factor, anything I learned from writing something I am so ashamed of. First and foremost, I learned to never write after a catastrophic Valentines Day. Secondly, I will never write a poem in the dark ever again. Lastly, before I scrub the rest of this experience from my memory, I learned poetry should be used to convey a significant image or concept, not to rant. That’s what a blog is for.
What is emo poetry worth? Very little. It can be a good example for what poetry should never resemble. It serves as a voice for not for those without a voice, but those who should never be heard. It’s useful for making a horrendous day incrementally worse. It is a good/horrifying experience for a writer; it is incredibly self-revealing, the more one actually begins to seriously write like an angry adolescent is when one should find a new profession. However, if taken in jest, it is a wonderful tool to scare relatives.
Poetry
All of my poetry which was previously posted here, I transferred over to my new blog, http://poetryunbridled.blogspot.com/
Grammar police, fuck off.
Grammar police, fuck off.
A product of Facebook
20 Absolutely random things about myself.
1. I think Miley Cyrus is definitely at least top ten Scariest people on the planet, if not top five.
2. I actually think the majority of people are terrifying, intimidating, psychotic or mind-numbingly boring, and if they aren’t any of those, then they are fascinating.
3. I probably ate something in the last 24 hours that isn’t technically edible. Oops.
4. I’ve slept for two days straight. Not sure why.
5. I have a fun habit of walking into stop signs, fire hydrants, parked cars, pedestrians, not parked cars, because I never pay attention to anything when I am walking.
6. When I was twelve, I ate four foot-long hot dogs, 3 liters of soda, and 2 bowls of instant noodles in one sitting.
7. Chihuahuas also make my list of Scariest things in the world. And Tom Cruise.
8. My favorite word is watermelon. Close second is pudding.
9. I had a dream where my friend broke into my room when I was taking a nap in a recliner and threw a live vampire bat at me, which woke me up in both my dream and in reality.
10. That same friend caught me dancing vigorously to The Temptations.
11. I have an enormous crush on that girl from Arrested Development. No, not Michael Cera.
12. My favorite superhero ever is Matter Eater Lad. Duh.
13. I hate shots. With a fiery passion. Needles are so frightening.
14. I am so scared of a ninja mugging. Am I the only one who looks for escape paths whenever I enter a room?
15. I am a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and probably couldn’t fight my way out of a soggy, cardboard box.
16. I am prejudiced against any valley girl or emo kid. “Like totally OMG, lolz.” Hawthorne Heights = Sucks so hard.
17. I’ve found my senior year of high school that I actually like writing, mostly because it’s fun seeing people cringe at the insanity that I put on paper.
18. I am a nerd to the n'th degree, beyond normal human comprehension. But I will never be a trekkie.
19. I never learned to ride a bike, nor do I plan to, because I have about as good balance as blind appendage-less toad with an inner ear infection.
20. I would like to conclude with an obvious statement. I am weird as fuck. And I love it. Normal is boring.
1. I think Miley Cyrus is definitely at least top ten Scariest people on the planet, if not top five.
2. I actually think the majority of people are terrifying, intimidating, psychotic or mind-numbingly boring, and if they aren’t any of those, then they are fascinating.
3. I probably ate something in the last 24 hours that isn’t technically edible. Oops.
4. I’ve slept for two days straight. Not sure why.
5. I have a fun habit of walking into stop signs, fire hydrants, parked cars, pedestrians, not parked cars, because I never pay attention to anything when I am walking.
6. When I was twelve, I ate four foot-long hot dogs, 3 liters of soda, and 2 bowls of instant noodles in one sitting.
7. Chihuahuas also make my list of Scariest things in the world. And Tom Cruise.
8. My favorite word is watermelon. Close second is pudding.
9. I had a dream where my friend broke into my room when I was taking a nap in a recliner and threw a live vampire bat at me, which woke me up in both my dream and in reality.
10. That same friend caught me dancing vigorously to The Temptations.
11. I have an enormous crush on that girl from Arrested Development. No, not Michael Cera.
12. My favorite superhero ever is Matter Eater Lad. Duh.
13. I hate shots. With a fiery passion. Needles are so frightening.
14. I am so scared of a ninja mugging. Am I the only one who looks for escape paths whenever I enter a room?
15. I am a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and probably couldn’t fight my way out of a soggy, cardboard box.
16. I am prejudiced against any valley girl or emo kid. “Like totally OMG, lolz.” Hawthorne Heights = Sucks so hard.
17. I’ve found my senior year of high school that I actually like writing, mostly because it’s fun seeing people cringe at the insanity that I put on paper.
18. I am a nerd to the n'th degree, beyond normal human comprehension. But I will never be a trekkie.
19. I never learned to ride a bike, nor do I plan to, because I have about as good balance as blind appendage-less toad with an inner ear infection.
20. I would like to conclude with an obvious statement. I am weird as fuck. And I love it. Normal is boring.
Hope
Hope, the basis of optimism, it is the fantastical delirium that blinds the common man from the sickening reality of his own mundane life. Hope represents everything that we cannot be and yet still stupidly aspire to nonetheless. Hope is a drug in which there is no rehabilitation program in a sterile environment, supported by your loved ones and professionals trained to help you: rather it is the opposite. We exist in an unfriendly world filled to the capacity with soulless lumps of flesh that interact with such pitiful shallowness, where we are surrounded by individuals, and yet we are completely and utterly alone.
Perhaps Hope, even though it may only be an illusion, a creation of our exceedingly weak minds, is a necessity for survival. For is it not the goal to live, for our hearts to keep on beating, so we can find purpose in our lives, in where there may not be one? For hope transforms us from the mindless robots we may biologically represent, into motivated people, deluded into imagining that we can not simply exist, but to live. Even though we are merely an insignificant blip on the unimaginably vast spectrum of our universe, with hope, that blip finds meaning. Life is precious, shall we never forget that.
Perhaps Hope, even though it may only be an illusion, a creation of our exceedingly weak minds, is a necessity for survival. For is it not the goal to live, for our hearts to keep on beating, so we can find purpose in our lives, in where there may not be one? For hope transforms us from the mindless robots we may biologically represent, into motivated people, deluded into imagining that we can not simply exist, but to live. Even though we are merely an insignificant blip on the unimaginably vast spectrum of our universe, with hope, that blip finds meaning. Life is precious, shall we never forget that.
My personal experience with writing
Writing to me is can be equated to sculpting. When the project is first begun, a general idea of what shape the artist intends the sculpture to possess. For example, sculptor sees a majestic horse and would like to immortalize its graceful figure. The block of stone, in due time, begins to resemble an outline of a horse. However, in the process of sculpting, the artist, in a fit of passion, strikes the hammer down too swiftly and creates a line down its side. The sculptor realizes that the sculpture looks better now, and utilizes the line, until eventually it turns into a different beast, a zebra, perhaps. Writing can start with a relatively clear idea of what the desired end outcome is, but the act of writing can create a beast with a life of its own, and take on a completely different direction, a journey which we are privy to accompany.
What is History?
Here's another old piece I'm reposting in my blog.
What is history? Is it merely a random collective series of events? Is it merely a set of inexplicable events outside of our extremely limited influence; essentially powerless to the occurrences that exist out side of us?
What if, life isn’t simply a repetitive blur, an inevitable natural progression across a timeline, rather its your action or inaction that determines your life?
It is action that drives the world. People making active choices truly define the composition of history. Then what role does philosophy possess in the grand scheme of what comprises history? Is all this pondering is relatively meaningless?
Revolutionary thinkers change the basic concepts upon which philosophy originates. For in which history has been defined example, Carl Marx fundamentally changed our perception of what ideal government is. Marx's ideas were brilliant theoretically, and ideally if society could feasibly function with a semblance of selflessness, it would truly be ideal.
In hindsight, in the actual application of Marxism, it is revealed that it is impractical, not realistic. However, it is the active choice to implement it in human society in which it is revealed to be impractical.
It is action in which the course of history is perpetuated.
Free will, or the idea of choice versus the concept of pre-determinism is in reality a nonissue. It is the very fact that action will occur, in which history is continually driven forward, though not necessarily upward.
If there’s no action, the sole mechanism by which things get done, the world simply remains the same and unchanging. The mechanism, in the case of world history being the revolution and the people behind it, is what drives change and ultimately is why things are the way they are.
In a Platonic optimistic viewpoint upon this discussion, perhaps it is the thought provoking, intelligent discourse that inspires greater action truly defines the bedrock of what history consists of. Rash impulsive actions can have repercussions lasting far beyond their lack of contemplation. However, the root of what history originates from; goes beyond mere instinctual action, but a series of contemplated revolutionary actions.
This is my foray into serious contemplation of philosophy, Mind you, this is the product of severe insomnia.
What is history? Is it merely a random collective series of events? Is it merely a set of inexplicable events outside of our extremely limited influence; essentially powerless to the occurrences that exist out side of us?
What if, life isn’t simply a repetitive blur, an inevitable natural progression across a timeline, rather its your action or inaction that determines your life?
It is action that drives the world. People making active choices truly define the composition of history. Then what role does philosophy possess in the grand scheme of what comprises history? Is all this pondering is relatively meaningless?
Revolutionary thinkers change the basic concepts upon which philosophy originates. For in which history has been defined example, Carl Marx fundamentally changed our perception of what ideal government is. Marx's ideas were brilliant theoretically, and ideally if society could feasibly function with a semblance of selflessness, it would truly be ideal.
In hindsight, in the actual application of Marxism, it is revealed that it is impractical, not realistic. However, it is the active choice to implement it in human society in which it is revealed to be impractical.
It is action in which the course of history is perpetuated.
Free will, or the idea of choice versus the concept of pre-determinism is in reality a nonissue. It is the very fact that action will occur, in which history is continually driven forward, though not necessarily upward.
If there’s no action, the sole mechanism by which things get done, the world simply remains the same and unchanging. The mechanism, in the case of world history being the revolution and the people behind it, is what drives change and ultimately is why things are the way they are.
In a Platonic optimistic viewpoint upon this discussion, perhaps it is the thought provoking, intelligent discourse that inspires greater action truly defines the bedrock of what history consists of. Rash impulsive actions can have repercussions lasting far beyond their lack of contemplation. However, the root of what history originates from; goes beyond mere instinctual action, but a series of contemplated revolutionary actions.
This is my foray into serious contemplation of philosophy, Mind you, this is the product of severe insomnia.
The babblings of a self-righteous surburbian with far too much time on his hands
As I sit outside enjoying the fresh air, smoking my favorite brand of cigarettes (a logical conundrum, considering I am filling my lungs with intoxicating smoke), I ponder upon a multitude of inane, random topics. I gaze upon the infinite abyss (which is a meaningless cliché often used by astronomers attempting to pose as philosophers, or vice versa), I conjure up a list of self-descriptives I do believe will be apt.
I sincerely think my life may be a giant non sequitur. A humorous, completely unrelated joke that really has no consequence, unless there is a sexual reference.
I am the indelicately used portmanteau. I am a literary farce. A grammatical mistake in a hastily written fiction novella.
I am the spastic colon that throbs in your side. Hopefully not literally. A bodily mishap, a malfunction however on an epic scale, a person completely misaligned with the universe.
I am a bevy of metaphors. I am like a faulty VHS tape, an outdated defective artifact from the past, labeled in large ugly blunt font, “Return to Sender”, UPS’ version of the proverbial rejection. It essentially dooms the subject to suffer the same fate as the pixilated Atari version of E.T. ; shoved into a forgotten landfill, quietly, wastefully and gratefully.
I am the anti-type to Fabio; not necessarily a bad thing, I am not a fan of venereal disease.
My writing is the indelible hulk.
For years I have been fixated upon the idea of defining the self. But I suddenly realize in an existential moment;
I'm hungry. And I want a baloney sandwich. What fills your belly affects your brain.
*A quick post script, to all my friends reading this, the opening was written during the summer, and I have long quit smoking.
I sincerely think my life may be a giant non sequitur. A humorous, completely unrelated joke that really has no consequence, unless there is a sexual reference.
I am the indelicately used portmanteau. I am a literary farce. A grammatical mistake in a hastily written fiction novella.
I am the spastic colon that throbs in your side. Hopefully not literally. A bodily mishap, a malfunction however on an epic scale, a person completely misaligned with the universe.
I am a bevy of metaphors. I am like a faulty VHS tape, an outdated defective artifact from the past, labeled in large ugly blunt font, “Return to Sender”, UPS’ version of the proverbial rejection. It essentially dooms the subject to suffer the same fate as the pixilated Atari version of E.T. ; shoved into a forgotten landfill, quietly, wastefully and gratefully.
I am the anti-type to Fabio; not necessarily a bad thing, I am not a fan of venereal disease.
My writing is the indelible hulk.
For years I have been fixated upon the idea of defining the self. But I suddenly realize in an existential moment;
I'm hungry. And I want a baloney sandwich. What fills your belly affects your brain.
*A quick post script, to all my friends reading this, the opening was written during the summer, and I have long quit smoking.
Ponderings from XKCD.com
Something else old, that I'm reposting in a new place.
My new obsession is webcomics. I'm into quite a bevy of them. Questionable Content. Cyanide and Happiness. Amazing Super Powers. A Softer World. Dr. McNinja. Sam and Fuzzy. Patches. Bunny-comic. Wasted Talent. Octopus Pie.
I have read enough Q.C. to have enough obscure indie band references to get some serious dome at Warped Tour.
But the one comic I relate to the most is XKCD. But I saw one disturbing comic and I simply had to rant.
"The infinite possibilities each day holds should stagger the mind, the sheer number of experiences I could have is uncountable, breathtaking, and I'm sitting here refreshing my inbox. We live trapped in loop, reliving a few day over and over, and we envision only a handful of paths laid out ahead of us. We see the same things each day, we respond the same way, we think the same thoughts, each day a slight variation on the last, every moment smoothly following the gentle curves of societal norms. We act like if we just get through today, tomorrow our dreams will come back to us.
And no, I don't have all the answers. I don't know how to jolt myself into seeing what each moment could become. But I do know one thing: the solution doesn't involve watering down my every little idea and creative impulse for the sake of someday easing my fit into a mold. It doesn't involve tempering my life to better fit someone's expectation. It doesn't involve constantly holding back for fear of shaking things up.
This is very important, so I want to say it as clearly as I can.
Fuck.
That.
Shit."
I did not write this, but whoever is the author on xkcd.com is a twisted genius, because this mild rant is so applicable to today's disillusioned times. It brings to mind the best Fight Club quote,
"We are the middle children of history, with no purpose, no place. We have no great war, no great depression. Our great war is a spiritual war. Our great depression is our lives" Now, what intellectual epiphany suddenly strikes me? That profanity intertwined with thoughtful pondering is the perfect combination, "Like Lamb and Cheese. Or would you Americans prefer spaghetti and meatballs?" A nice sophomoric reference.
So I repeat as the epic finale to these pointless ramblings, my introspective opinion on this pessimistic viewpoint upon human perception,
Fuck.
That.
Shit.
My new obsession is webcomics. I'm into quite a bevy of them. Questionable Content. Cyanide and Happiness. Amazing Super Powers. A Softer World. Dr. McNinja. Sam and Fuzzy. Patches. Bunny-comic. Wasted Talent. Octopus Pie.
I have read enough Q.C. to have enough obscure indie band references to get some serious dome at Warped Tour.
But the one comic I relate to the most is XKCD. But I saw one disturbing comic and I simply had to rant.
"The infinite possibilities each day holds should stagger the mind, the sheer number of experiences I could have is uncountable, breathtaking, and I'm sitting here refreshing my inbox. We live trapped in loop, reliving a few day over and over, and we envision only a handful of paths laid out ahead of us. We see the same things each day, we respond the same way, we think the same thoughts, each day a slight variation on the last, every moment smoothly following the gentle curves of societal norms. We act like if we just get through today, tomorrow our dreams will come back to us.
And no, I don't have all the answers. I don't know how to jolt myself into seeing what each moment could become. But I do know one thing: the solution doesn't involve watering down my every little idea and creative impulse for the sake of someday easing my fit into a mold. It doesn't involve tempering my life to better fit someone's expectation. It doesn't involve constantly holding back for fear of shaking things up.
This is very important, so I want to say it as clearly as I can.
Fuck.
That.
Shit."
I did not write this, but whoever is the author on xkcd.com is a twisted genius, because this mild rant is so applicable to today's disillusioned times. It brings to mind the best Fight Club quote,
"We are the middle children of history, with no purpose, no place. We have no great war, no great depression. Our great war is a spiritual war. Our great depression is our lives" Now, what intellectual epiphany suddenly strikes me? That profanity intertwined with thoughtful pondering is the perfect combination, "Like Lamb and Cheese. Or would you Americans prefer spaghetti and meatballs?" A nice sophomoric reference.
So I repeat as the epic finale to these pointless ramblings, my introspective opinion on this pessimistic viewpoint upon human perception,
Fuck.
That.
Shit.
A little about myself
I will forewarn the reader. This blog will be extremely disconcerting, at times revolting, and entirely non-sensical. Well, since I need to start somewhere, I may as well explain where my ridiculousness originates from. I went to a elementary school called Long Island School for the Gifted, affectionately called in retrospect as Long Island School for the Geeks. Of course the teachers at such a respectfully nicknamed prestigious school were a venerable hodgepodge of pure psychos.
One teacher stands out in my mind years later, tormenting my dreams with her satanic giggles. My 6th grade Science Teacher, Mrs. Shek. One particular day is like my mental pitchfork in a cow's rear end, noisy, flatulent, and quite excruciating. She ordered the class to bring in fluids from our fridges to test whether they were acidic or basic. Coming from an Asian family, I, of course brought soy sauce, sake, and pickled garlic juice. She presumed the pickled garlic juice was urine and proceeded to throw the hissy fit that will echo through through annals of history as the zenith of bitchiness. Not cool. This is the teacher who forced me to get glasses because I couldn’t read the board. However, when I finally did get them, I discovered it was because her handwriting was chicken scratch and not some fictitious malfunction with my brain. This is the same teacher who delightfully incinerated innocent gummy bears with a Bunsen burner, cackling with glee. My teachers during my formative years were not the stereotypical warm, endearing grade school teachers with a genuine maternal caring. My teachers were eccentric dwellers of the hippie era, most likely feeling the after effects of a decade of LSD abuse. My principal shared the same birthday as Hitler. This insanity trickled downwards, sort of like the imaginary economic system Reagan conjured in his head. The byproduct being me. Beware.
One teacher stands out in my mind years later, tormenting my dreams with her satanic giggles. My 6th grade Science Teacher, Mrs. Shek. One particular day is like my mental pitchfork in a cow's rear end, noisy, flatulent, and quite excruciating. She ordered the class to bring in fluids from our fridges to test whether they were acidic or basic. Coming from an Asian family, I, of course brought soy sauce, sake, and pickled garlic juice. She presumed the pickled garlic juice was urine and proceeded to throw the hissy fit that will echo through through annals of history as the zenith of bitchiness. Not cool. This is the teacher who forced me to get glasses because I couldn’t read the board. However, when I finally did get them, I discovered it was because her handwriting was chicken scratch and not some fictitious malfunction with my brain. This is the same teacher who delightfully incinerated innocent gummy bears with a Bunsen burner, cackling with glee. My teachers during my formative years were not the stereotypical warm, endearing grade school teachers with a genuine maternal caring. My teachers were eccentric dwellers of the hippie era, most likely feeling the after effects of a decade of LSD abuse. My principal shared the same birthday as Hitler. This insanity trickled downwards, sort of like the imaginary economic system Reagan conjured in his head. The byproduct being me. Beware.
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