Imitation of Walt Whitman Poem

They cry and cry; telling I, the bum to find work and leave the corner
They cry; for truth and omnipotent power, yet destroyed my world
They cry – all of them; and I gauge my anger for them
I lie to them and say the sun will rise tomorrow
I hold off the storm for a day, and the flood for an hour
And they cease their tears
And they thank me
And routine sets back; telling I, the jury to have mercy and allow the witness to speak
And routines set back;  yet they hesitate to grab their clubs.
Routines set back; and a hindsight shines through the dark clouds.
I have sat back into the constant gaze from the angle of my corner
I have held my rusted offering mug to my waist as I lay in the rain
I have yelled for everyone to stop their ways
And they cease the yelling and arguing
And they learned from fear and prosperity

It should be LAWL not Lull.

Ah, I have not been updating as much as I want to. I feel I’m lacking, but I’m busy! Writing isn’t easy and I can’t update this everyday with an interesting story and I don’t feel this should just be space where I can put anything.

Reasons I haven’t updated:

• “Snapshot”: a piece I put so much work into, causing most of the lull lately.
• School: apparently I’ve taken interest in the grades I get.
• After school rehearsals: I play Meredith Paxton in Final Vinyl: A Rock Musical (expect a blog on this shortly)
• After school detentions: Hamilton administration finally found all the ditched ASD’s.
• Reading: Choke by Chuck Palahniuk. A very interesting story.
• Reading: On Writing by Stephen King. Very insightful.
• Reading: Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. I like the spirituality, but the British is meh.

Currently, I’ve been thinking about updating this more and more with video other than articles and pieces. More to come!

Snapshot

taken by ni dieu ni maître! on Flickr

Twelve years old and the picture is as perfect as the day it was taken; despite the conspicuous coffee stains, smudgy ink, and the deteriorating corners, the Polaroid print inhabiting my side table drawer waited for twelve years. As the digital alarm clock, playing centerpiece to my wooden side table, counted the hours, as the moon and sun continuously fluxed roles, as I learned math, writing, and how to read, the photograph lay waiting until this very day. I grasp the brass drawer handle amid my fingers; the mahogany drawer creaks as it struggles through the rusting under track and–as though opening a window to show a forgotten autumn view–I see my young self: embraced by a tiny young girl.
* * *
It awed me to watch the green chlorophyll-pigment escape a divine leaf; It awed me more to witness the yellowish-red autumn take over. My mother’s freshly manicured nails gently nicked me as she held my five-year-old fingers. We walked on the familiar suburban road on our way to my old day care where, the day previous, I had misbehaved. In my left hand, I held an autumn leaf–examining the changes that had been taking place. To my right,  a slight timbre in my mother’s walk instructed me to stay silent–to not rattle a cage. People back then had the unanimous description of me as:
“Wild and uncontrollable!” shouted my pre-school teacher: a women, I no longer know the name of. My mother and I took a seat, resting upon the surface of the plastic glossy-red chairs: uncomfortable and–to a child–indestructible.
“We try controlling him,” my mother defended, with her infamous passive-aggressive tone, “but he’s just so… so…”
“Attention deficient?” she stated with a proclivity for suggestion.
“No. My boy doesn’t have a disorder. He’s just–.”
“Mildly energetic? Hyperactive? Prone to tantrums?” my teacher’s inclinations were nothing short of subtle, of course.
“His father likes to call it creativity,” my mother begun to rise from the seat, heading towards the door; she takes me by the hand again, “Why isn’t he off the walls now, huh?”
“He’s obviously scared he’s in trouble, right little Matty?” she shifted her tone at the end, attempting to appeal to my childish behavior–I knew better; I remained mute, “your boy hasn’t done a single cooperative or productive thing all year. He constantly picks on his classmates and throws toys around for fun. He never sleeps during nap time, he never stops talking, he never tries to stay on task! Tell me, do you see him show any signs of attention or focus at home?”
My mother hesitates, scavenging for a previous demonstration of academic trait, “Yes.”
“When?” my teacher retorted, snootily.
“When he’s with our next door neighbor’s daughter, that’s when,” she succumbed to the excitement of discovering my niche, “he tells her stories about adventures and shows all the time. They make up games together and they’re just the two most creative kids I’ve ever met!”
* * *
Nostalgia evokes my mind as I stare into Natalie’s young brown eyes in the photo. I remember–as I see–the prepossessing curly brown hair of my first little audience member. Her widely eclectic lips would smile; they would depress the dimples that symmetrically sunk beneath her tiny tannish cheeks as she applauded for me–all captured in frozen image.
I abort my evocative stream of conscious memories–focusing now on the task at hand. Around my neck, a Polaroid–I own in antiquity–hangs by a black strap, laying gently on my chest as I sit on my bed. Reaching into my jean pocket, I unfold a flier. It informs about a photography contest being held; winners earn a free vacation anywhere in the United States. Theme: innocence.
The photograph I hold is gorgeous. Lighting: spot on–the color of the autumn trees in the background compliment our eyes. Her arms bide me from behind. A perfect snapshot–yet unqualified; the contest is strict. No coffee stains allowed.
* * *
“What did she say?” Natalie asked, referring to my teacher.
We were both located in her backyard: plastic balls, hula-hoops,UPS packaging boxes, and technicolor chalk–scattered through the 20-acre wonderland. Goldenrod rays flooded the land–along with my yard, right next door–and everything glowed mystically. The sun, right above, sent the illusion of golden highlights falling, spiraling, as she moved, through her beautiful curly hair.
“Well…” I stretched the “L” sound; like lightning, I started zipping through my young thoughts, scavenging for something to amuse her, “she said I was a genius, and should move to genius school!”
“No way!” her eyes beamed with the goldenrod light that shined down on her; she didn’t want to believe it, but in earlier minds our imaginations manifest reality.
“Yeah way!” I looked straight into her eyes–to ignite belief, “and I can prove it, too!”
Her smile divulged her dimples; she clenched her teeth as she giggled, “Nuh uh.”
“Ya huh, ask me a question!”
“What kinda question?”
“Umm,” I think like a genius, “ a’ ar’thimetic one! Math!”
“Hmm, okay,” she pondered for a moment and her eyes gleamed again, “what’s a bajillion times five-million bajillion?”
“Easy,” with narcissistic lingo, to trick her, “two-million quadrillion,” I pause for dramatic effect, to prolong applause, to accumulate anticipation, “and one.”
She giggles hysterically at the punch line; I looked into her eyes and her face scrunched up as she smiled–for odd reasons, I smiled back.
“My teacher also said something else,” although two young to acknowledge–my cardio-vascular system began racing, multiplying two-million quadrillion and one times faster.
“Oh yeah?” she smiled again, prepared for another set-up; the gold glares in her hair undulated like a contained jello, “What else?”
“She said I’m quite the smoocher,” I tried to keep an earnest face, any sign of a humorous emotion–God forbid a blush–could jeopardize my entire devious ruse.
“What?!” she was in sheer shock and her jaw dropped like a cartoon, “how would she know?!”
Improvising again, “We were doing a kissing project,” a trait I still carry to this day: compulsive lying, “we had to kiss apples and pears and I did the best.”
“Oh my gosh,” she giggled again, hysterically, “that’s unbelievable.”
“Believe it,” I said, solemnly.
A lull–then, “I never kissed anyone before.”
“Me neither,” I stated.
At five years, a child can’t decipher an intimate moment from anything else in the world, but the biology usually stays the same. My veins constricted, blood rushed faster. I scanned for any parental unit within view. I take a step closer to her; my foot barely missing a mature dandelion grown atop the green grass. Beneath our slowly attracting feet, another action occured; a tiny yellow bee–leftover from the summer–began to nestle onto the delicate weed. The insect hovered, dropping altitude, closer and closer to the dandelion; I remember her dimpled cheeks getting closer and closer to mine.
* * *
Who cares–I think to myself–what do five-year olds know about that stuff anyway? The sole of my shoes slide as I walk on freshly dewed grass. It smells of natural oak and wood, a wet freshness and a cool chill, stimulating my nostrils, fashioning appreciation for the tranquility of far-western suburbia. I crouch lowly; Polaroid pointing to a dandelion diverging a trail of black ants into two paths, amongst the green.
The camera begins humming, configuring, manufacturing the snapshot. Through the Polaroid outlet slot, an image ejects–printed upon a gloss coated sheet. I redeem the photograph from my hanging camera; the image taken is horrendous: too saturated, stray winds catching blades of grass producing negative and unbalanced effects.
It was cold. My fingers ached. It became hard to simply take a picture. The damp grass sloshes as I travel across the green-belt. All my life I’ve traveled across suburbs; These miniscule societies built on bricks of prosperity, progression, and the perfect industrial family–yet why couldn’t I capture innocence?
Rusted chain creaks accompany the sound of an accelerating wind, as a swing set imitates a descending pendulum. Beneath my chilled toes, the sound of moist grass resides for the audibility of crunching wood chips. Through the lens, I see a lonely park; Gray clouds begin to accumulate in the sky and a bead of fallen rain hits the camera. I drop the Polaroid–allowing the neck strap to catch it.
* * *
We were transfixed on a Pavlovian response, averted to the trill of a wasp’s flight; Immediately, Natalie and I relinquished our two plastic swings, fleeing from the winged insect. Refuge was made at her house. We sat on a leather couch, in her basement, we drank the traditional elementary fruit punch, and we viewed sitcoms from the biggest television I had ever seen (back then, of course).
As the dim fluorescent television glow brightened her face, she told me about her worries. She feared starting elementary school, not making any friends, or getting bullied; Our personalities were complete opposites. I laughed at her phobias and assured her they were nothing. She believe me and we watched a cartoon–filling the commercials with our own laughter.
* * *
The swift rudiments the rain played grew harsher as I ventured my neighborhood–now aimlessly taking pictures of anything. Lightning discharging, rumbling skies, and rain only buried my determination to find innocence in this scenery; I press “click” and the Polaroid ejects a decaying cactus and to my surprise, I manage to capture lightning. I laugh at my displaced luck.
* * *
An violent orange warmth illumined our neighborhood, the mild brightness decorated even the darkest of places, giving my formal pre-school a soothing autumn glow, giving our houses a scenic spotlight. The orange-red could be found anywhere: bouncing off the sidewalk asphalt, disjoining at a tree, spiraling down her curls.
As a decade old male, lifting cardboard boxes filled with household utilities came easy; the same could not be said for Natalie: a nine year old female. I loaded, going back and forth between front porch, sidewalk, then U-Haul, Natalie helped me. In frustration she said, “Matty, you dork, help me with this box!”
Annoyed, I laid my box down on the concrete sidewalk. Catching a glimpse of the label on her box, I grew irritated. “Tupperware…” I paused for dramatic effect, “You need help carrying tupperware, really?”
“Oh, don’t talk high and mighty with me, mister I-can-never-play-cause-I’m-exhausted!” she retorted.
I couldn’t wait until every material possession I owned was in that U-Haul. My family and I were leaving this small suburban home for a bigger one, closer to the city, with more room. I didn’t want to leave Natalie forever–just a break. It was agreed that monthly visits would be made.
The afternoon continued similar to this: She whined; I whined. Gradually, the boxes stacked atop each other within the storage, building piles, and as the orange sunset descended beneath the horizon, my father closed the U-Haul, ready to leave, but not completely. My mother and father already gave their goodbyes to Natalie’s parents; they were in the van. I approached the family automobile and got in.
“Hey Matt,” my father said from the driver seat, “I’d say bye to Natalie if I were you.”
Deciding to obey, I exited the car, and climbed up her front porch steps to press the doorbell. Seconds after the gentle tune filled her house, the door opened and the dim glow of the autumn sunset was enough to see her face; It looked as though she was crying.
“Bye,” I said, generically.
“Bye,” her voice cracked slightly.
I was speechless; I wanted to leave, so I began to turn, but her hand clenched my shoulder. She turned me around and embraced me. The sunset finally gave way to moonlight–and it was silent.
“I’ll visit you every month,” she promised.
* * *
I got home. I’m sitting at my desk; I’m holding Polaroids in my hands by the hundreds. I stare into the highly saturated, horribly lit, and unimpressive photograph cocktail. They all suck. Submitting the picture of the thunder by the cactus crosses my mind. Could be good, in an abstract contemporary way.
* * *
The whistling had to stop. It had been a good year since I’ve moved farther from Natalie, she was still visiting me, barely. I stared at my homework assignment–that God forsaken teapot blower wouldn’t shut up; the numbers in my math problems begun to mix into each other, and anxiety irked my mind until I finally snapped my number two pencil and exited my room.
She was playing with my little sister in the room next to mine; Our new house was a lot more spacious, but sound seemed to reach me faster. I opened the white dry-wall door, two girls were dancing and whistling to the tune of a song I don’t remember.
“Natalie!” I half-shouted.
She stopped the noise and dance, my sister followed. Turning, she looked at me and half-shot me a smile, “What’s wrong?”
“Uh…” I attempted to sound nicer, “I have to do homework. Can you guys be quiet,” a hesitation, “please?”

taken by John Groseclose on Flickr

“Oh,” she sounded taken aback, “alright.”
The next two hours I did my work in silence, the occasional laughter here and there; I tolerated. After work was finished, my phone rings: a girl from my middle school. At age 11, you’re all too aware of an intimate opportunity.
I could still hear the other two in my sisters room at nighttime. It was cold. My fingers felt numb as I held the phone: talking to a girl I don’t remember, wishing it was still daytime. Fourteen minutes invested into the phone, I heard a gentle thud on my door. Suspicion alerted me, Natalie is up to something.
With the simple, “Hey can I call you back?” I paused the conversation. Suddenly, the door flung open before I got to the handle, hitting me on the forehead. Natalie entered my room laughing, oblivious to my injury.
“Hey Matty!” she yelled obnoxiously; I grew frustrated. How dare she made me hold a call, “Who was the girl you were talking to? Your new lover?”
It was a mixture of pain, intolerance, and catalytic brewing of the hormones.
“Your voice rattles when you talk to her!” she laughed.
It was a mixture of accumulating annoyance, anger, pain.
“You even try to make little cutesy phrases,” she went nuts.
It was a highly saturated, horribly lit, and unimpressive cocktail.
“Shut up!” I broke, “Shut the hell up, okay?”
She’s silent.
“You annoy me! You’ve gotten on my nerves since the day I met you! You dumb little cooz!” the biology stays the same for teenagers too: adrenaline.
She’s silent.
“You’ve gotten on my nerves since grade school when we walked home… and it just keeps getting worst!”
She cried.
“I hate you! Get out of my life! I want nothing to do with you!”
* * *
That was the last time I saw Natalie, running out of my room in tears.
All these photos suck.
* * *
I laid down in my bed, staring out of my window, gazing at the cobweb of stars weaved into a midnight sky. Stillness filled the air. Unexpectedly, my cell phone began to ring and I scurry out of bed to search; The ringing was faint, barely audible. It was probably under the covers or one of my other pillows, perhaps the closet.
The ring ceased and silence returned to my room. There I stood, aimlessly scanning for the handheld. Suddenly, another ring intruded: quieter, quicker.
Voicemail received.
Minutes later I found it beneath the mattress, and I played the message: Hi Matty, this is Natalie. Uh… I just called to say happy birthday. I didn’t forget it was today… twelve years old. Congratulations buddy… I really miss you. A lot. And I miss being around you. And I want to hear from you. And… and… I love you and just wanted to say ‘hi.’ Bye Matty… call me back as soon as you can.
* * *
I’m sixteen now. There was no call-back. No reply–just silence. I live farther now, too.
Currently I hold a manilla folder from Flickr Inc.; I tear it apart. I unfold the letter. I read: “We regret to inform you that your photograph is unqualified for judging due to coffee stains.”
* * *
“Alright Matty and Natalie, ready?” her mother said.
The goldenrod, filtered by the autumn leaves branching from the oaks, grazed our heads as Natalie and I adjusted ourselves in front of the Polaroid.
“This is the coolest gift ever!” I stated, referring to the camera.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart. Now stay still so I can get you two in this picture correctly.” We waited for another minute; Natalie’s mother struggled to turn off the flash.
Behind us, our suburbia was enriched by autumn leaves drizzling with the light wind. The golden grasses of our front lawns complimented the autumn-leaf showers. A cricket nearby played a tune–a tune I no longer remember, only that it was joyous. The smiles we formed just laughing about stupid 5-year-old stuff.
“Okay ready?”
We prepared our pose: magazine smiles and silly eyes.
“One.”
“Two.”
“Say cheese… and…”
I felt Natalie’s arms suddenly flung onto my biceps, embracing me from behind and to a complete shock my magazine smiles turned genuine.
We heard clicks; We heard noise.
And a picture perfect photograph was ejected.

Puppet Noir

“This is crap, dude,” no one said it. The phrase was a mutual thought between all four of us.

Below my black-and-vanilla Macbeth branded shoes, the mutilated remains of a once called “puppet” corpse laid–napping as a dog would. The high school hallway was filled with unsuspecting boys and girls; Each having their own self-centered days and not even caring about slowing down and smelling the flowers–even if it is a deceased body. We all stared at the mess. Through my periphery view, I caught a glimpse of Officer Ginsberg–cigar lit amid his lips–inspecting the body in a heinous and gruesome fashion. Description of deceased body: soaked in a puddle of it’s own glue-and-water mess, wire-framed head cap kicked in, limbs tangled, naked–I see Senator Richard pass by; He’d better prepare the obituary press.

“Our little friend here must have been severely assaulted. Anyone know where he’s been for the past month?” Officer Ginsberg questioned.

The rest of us blankly stared at him.

“I thought we nerfed the whole Puppet-Protections Act, anyways!” stated Officer Reed, “It ain’t up to us to aid with the injustices of the second-class citizens!”

“Listen, as long as a crime to this degree has occurred under my jurisdiction,” Ginsberg boldly glared at Reed in eye, “we must protect the puppets.”

The two of them continued arguing. I aborted attention of the commotion and stepped towards the mangled corpse. Kneeling over, the smell of decay process and excrement flared my nostrils; I ignored the foul stench and resumed examination. From my back pocket, I unsheathe my sister’s My Little Pony pocket-pad and began jotting down a few notes Ginsberg had been incognizant to. Much ignorance–from all officers–jeopardized the veracity of our cases. This one will not be lost.

I notice a weak thin blond hair hanging on–what I think–is the victim’s ribcage–noted. Multiple, yet diminutive, burns are found on the pieces of newspaper torn from the body–noted. A minuscule brass shard, stabbed into foot of victim–noted.

“Where the fuck was this puppet then?” shouted Ginsberg; He always had a strong passion for words and being clearly audible.

“Listen, man: No one has any clue!” yelled Reed.

I clear my throat. “You men argue in circles. One: is too passionate on the case,” I look towards Ginsberg, “the other: too little.”

They both look at me.

“Your motives cancels eachother out.”

“Listen he was just-,” shouted Ginsberg.

“No, it’s stupid that we have to-,” retorted Reed

“CAN WE ALL JUST GET THE HELL ALONG!” shouted Thomas Falcon: the fourth member of our party.

We mutually agree. “Alright listen, I have reason to believe the victim resided in the boiler room when he was assaulted due to the burnt marks on his skin. Officer Ginsberg, if you would like to continue on the case I suggest you search for more clues there,” I nod at him and he nods back, “Officer Reed, take this puppet to the nursing homes. I found no insurance card in the victim’s wallet, but medical needs are important.”

“It’ll cost him around 40 thousands, sir,” Reed stated.

“That’s fine,” I nod.

“He’s already dead, dude,” he replied.

“Listen to me, goddammit!” patience wore thin. A case like this could be worth 40 police points over at the department.

“Fine,” Reed takes the corpse and vanishes.

The Ravine, The Sticks

Half-and-half was the coffee type best suited for the journey. Caffeine-powered energy circulated throughout the nervous muscle system. The surface rippled as the decrepit wooden paddle stroked the ravine’s still water, sweat accumulated on the brow of the white-haired boatman; agitated by the ambiguous sting in his eye–yet paddled onward. The road ahead: the only passage available to getting to the boatman’s “home,” was prolonging. The ravine tested tolerance.

He raised his chrome thermos to his large and violently pink lips. As the hazel coffee grazed his chapped lips, the man took notice of the mist surrounding his vessel. The boatman–although tolerable–was agitated with the mind settings of yesterdays and the previous, despite the relaxing waft of the ravine current. Paddling, stronger, faster, towards the mist: which once soared at the heavens; the boatman reminisces of skeletons from the past. Resilience to forget–the punishment for a guilty conscience.

More impulsive, his strokes began to turn. Steady ripples now turned to light splashes; the rowboat now tilted and turned with a faster, more complex rhythm. Veins tightened within his arms, wrists, and shoulders: frail, like any elder senior–patiently waiting for the final rest.

Shortly, pain crept into the consciousness of the boatman and he aborted his frantic paddling. Resuming a sense of tranquility, the boatman released the paddle–midway below water–from his firm grip; allowing the utility to float on–far from him. He let go, permitted peace to gather, and allowed the current to guide.

“There ain’t no use,” he screamed to the mist, “I can’t run away.”

Nearby stalks of plants–peeking supra the water’s surface–bent to the strong, sudden draft of wind, which has manipulated the vessel; it steered the boatman deeper into the vague obscurity of the mist. The boatman refrains from tears; congenitally, crying in any situation was a niche for weakness. He kept his eyes resistant to–his own–perception of this eldritch phenomenon. Yet, no senile man in his late 80’s could resist what the boatman saw next.

Deeper and deeper, the wind emphatically guided the boatman into the mist. The surface tension began breaking and reassembling with the speed of trek of the vessel. And suddenly–a stop. The contemporary stillness and tranquility temporarily revisited the boatman again. He takes advantage of the calm; as still as the stars assigned to the sky–and takes a last profound and long breathe of chilled mist. His caffeine-stimulated muscle attempt relaxation–unknowing to the boatman his body was going a mile a minute–but, at the inhale, a gentle “thud” is heard from below the raft. The boatman peaks towards the edge of the rowboat–and his cardiac, ventricle, and muscle system reach the speed threshold. His body: a light bulb burnt out after it’s final switch-on, a manual motor grinding it’s gears, the putting out of a candle–fell into the still and peaceful waters; he floated next to the corpse of a women: in the early stages of decay–larva already picking out at her large and, what was once, violent pink lips.

With only the last final tremors of the boatman; they both rested, calmy and tranquil, atop the ravine–allowing the mysteries of the mist to engulf them.

The Effects of Doxycycline

“Now I just want everyone to know that absolutely NO LATE WORK IS ACCEPTED THIS QUARTER. I cannot stress that enough, although I know the majority of you are responsible,” I always admired my English teacher’s sarcastic tone. I admired it for being the simplest defense mechanism from negative judgement, it brought him more profound character, and overall it was just plain funny.

Today, however, differed. The man was performing an entire dramatic monologue for the aim of getting a single rule across. I know there’s no late work accepted, you’ve told us this a million times. First period–sleep deprived, moody, hungered–drove up my tolerance level to the boiling point. The silver bar handle pushed in and out as student upon student of teacher aids entered through the door to deliver paper. The wooden door’s hinges creaked loud then soft as late classmates filled in vacant seats. For an odd reason, my stomach begins to churn and twist. A vein above my left temple begins to drum.

“Hey Nick! How was your break?” a delightful friend asks whilst taking a seat.

“Uh,” my body was telling me to keep my mouth shut, throat tight, and just sit down–but, I don’t want to come off rude, “it was pretty good. Yours?”

I was not paying attention to a single word this kid was saying. His words were as minuscule to my attention as the thumping vein by my temple. All I could think about was my stomach and even now I hold the faintest recollection of his spring break.

“That’s nice,” I lied, “Man, I don’t feel so good.”

“Oh that sucks,” his words were twice as loud today, “because I feel fantastic.”

I moan and sigh in a depressed prosody. My body demands rest and puts my head down on the cold desk.

“Well, I feel great! I got this new soap called Irish Winter and it’s incredible!”

He mocked me. He mocked me without even knowing it. Every phrase he spoke, every word he uttered, every syllable he sent was like a projectile missile…

“So remember kids, NO LATE WORK IS ACCEPTED FROM NOW ON.”

My body demanded relief, a quick fix, something! Glands within my palms begin excreting a cold sweat, my back cringes, arching my body around my stomach cushioning my organ within my seat,  oxygen stubbornly enters into my lungs and my eyes tear up. I knew I needed to evacuate the classroom–quickly–into the restroom, hidden from the harsh behaviors and immature eyes of a high school teenager. What I was about to do could have left a new nickname for me the rest of my high school career. I thank God I am not a freshmen.

Suddenly the agony reaches the peak of its bodily possession and like a marionette enslaved to the strings of natural reflex my body twists to the perfectly organized choreography of illness. The palatine uvula dips to the rhythm of my friend’s spring break sonnet. The stomach implodes to the harmony of Mr. Whorton’s adagio speech. And my sweaty palms slap quickly to my mouth, sealing the lips from projecting the mixture solution to high school embarrassment.

My mouth fills up instantly with a burning liquid and I feel every single taste bud nestled on my tongue flair up to the profound sour flavor. Swiftly the liquid arose from my throat filling up my mouth to capacity–I thought of swallowing the combination whole, but at this point it was impossible. With a loud “urggggg” I exude my Honey Bunches of Oats with milk and turn to my friend in shock.

He looked at me dead in the eye; his Irish Winter story falls silent. I briskly examine the rest of my peers for their reaction and was delivered one of the tiniest and rarest blessings: no one noticed. They were all transfixed by my teacher’s sarcastic monologue about late work, all bide to their own cold interpersonal worlds and–best of all–completely oblivious to the action of me throwing up in the pubic classroom.

I sat there, jarred and ignorant to the next step in my Doxycycline side-effect epic was; my friend gathered his shock and gave me the answer:

“I’d go to the bathroom if I were you.”

Guestin’ it: And I will walk 500 miles

Today we continue our ongoing (and possibly one part) series about love songs that are actually not about love. Today we’re looking into I Would Walk 500 Miles by The Proclaimers, but what are the proclaiming? Not love. (Brownie break, I’ll be right back. Ok, sorry about that, you guys know how it is with brownies). Anywhooo… Back on task.

If you want to listen to the song play this while you read 

The first strike against “I’m Gonna Be” (That’s the real title, I just used 500 miles because it’s well-known) is the excessive use of I. It’s not about love or about this girl, it’s all about him/them. Anyone who took Mrs. Robertson’s sophomore health class knows that you should avoid I words for some… reason. I didn’t pay attention enough to remember the rest. Although I do recall that class featured an inordinate amount of texting. But that’s beside the point. Or rather, it’s below the point, by about four lines.

Strike dos- After declaring that he will walk 1000 miles, our protagonist then states he’s doing it “… just to be the man who walked 1000 miles…”. Did you catch it? He’s not doing it for love, he’s doing it for his own selfish reasons. He wants to be walking down the street and have people whisper behind their hands, “There he is! That’s the man who walked 1000 miles!” He however, does not want them sighing contentedly, saying, “Isn’t that beautiful? The things love can cause.” Because, It’s not about love! It’s all about him.

Tres- I have severe issues with the choice of the word would. Would is not will, or even could. It’s very noncommittal. I imagine I would not enjoy a movie based off a cheesy 1960’s television show, and yet I will be first in line to see Land of The Lost. I would like to sleep in tomorrow, but I’ll be at school. Also, would is a very ambiguous word; because of it’s structure the past tense is not a different word, it’s the same word with an addition, have. So for all we know The Proclaimers left out the word have, and instead of writing about the labors of love they will go through, their singing an excuse about what they would have (see, so close to past tense) done. To sum up that rant, the main problem is the lack of concrete promises. Actually do something, don’t say you would.

and finally (unless I think of another) we reach catorce (I’m counting in U2 numbers)- There are no qualifications in the song. When will you walk 500 miles? Will they be consecutive? Who’s to say it’s a labor of love? I have gotten the mail almost every day for the past 8 years. My mailbox is at least 1/8 of a mile away from my house. At that rate  I’ve walked 365 miles for my family. In another couple of years I will walk 500 miles. But it won’t be out of love, it’ll just be a tedious task. Of course not to say tediocrity (word of the day, right there) can’t be wonderful. Every day for at least 15 years, the first thing my grandpa did every morning was drive to the Speedway one mile away and buy my grandma a 72 oz coke. That small gesture was more than the Proclaimers ever did. Stop proclaimin’ and start acting (man their name makes this to easy).

Oh and quince (I was right, I thought of another, but I have no idea if Bono would follow 14 with 15)- What’s up with the dududuh part? Run out of vague falsitudes?

With all that being said, I really like this song. And the new MxPx version is pretty sweet. (Also, how awesome are their accents?)

Guest entry: Write this in your pipe and read it

In two hours the new school day begins. 1 hour and 56 minutes. I got distracted for four minutes there. Crap 1 hour and 55 minutes. I need to get on this. Sorry, I get distracted easily. Nick set it up so that I could blog on his blog (By the way, I’m Josh, nice to meet you all) so he and I were discussing the set-up as I attempted to write the beginning, explaining the rambling and random nature of this post. Hey, on an unrelated note (As if any notes of this post have been even close to related) were you all aware Jerry Seinfeld believes that blog is the most hideous word in the english language? It’s true. He said it on The Daily Show. I was going to insert the video but I don’t know my way around this thing yet, just youtube it.

So, back to the point, in keeping with Nick’s recent theme I will discuss then return to school. But first, a look back at my break. It sucked. Here is a video I did for school two weeks ago that should give you an idea of the “high” expectations I had for my Junior spring break. 

Oh, but it gets better. In reality I came down with a 102 degree fever. Oh yes my friends, it rocked my ever-loving socks off (or at least it would have if they hadn’t been pasted to my body due to the excessive sweat from my fever ridden body). So, in one hour and 33 minutes (it took me forever to figure out how to post that video, Youtube is down, Youtube!) I turn my back on the warm and miserable two weeks and one day that was my spring break, and to a new quarter of school. Quarter four (That’s totally almost a rhyme). I will wake up at 6:07 and get ready for school. Leave my house exactly when my grandfather clock strikes 7. Arrive at school at about 7:14. Sigh. And come alive at 2:15, having wasted another day. (Hey, imagine that progression like the opening to Shawn of the Dead, you remember it, where the camera shows his face as he wanders through his miserable life? That was sweet). Tally ho. I won’t see you tomorrow, I’ll be spending the day pretending I’m somewhere sunny (and yes I know Arizona is sunny, but this place is hell sunny, I’m talking tropical sunny). Also, I like parentheses. Get used to ’em. They’re here to stay.

By the way. It took me an hour or so to get that video up there, we now only have 31 minutes until the new school day. Enjoy it

Five Snapshots

Inspired by a friend, I decided to write a few little snippets of experiences that either happened to me, wish had happen to me, or completely made up. Each paragraph reveals a trait I have about myself, may it be good or bad. Keep in mind that I have changed wording, situations, or even characters to better suit what I am trying to bring into these paragraphs.

– Paranoiac impulses convulse my mother’s yelling mouth as I lay in bed, three minutes late for school. She preaches the familiar march of the optimist and expects me to take the trite words to heart. I keep to my comforting mattress–pull the covers over my head–and tell her she’s taking things to an inappropriate level of aggression. My grayish morning-sunlit walls rumble with violence as she slams the door telling me only to “get ready.” Through cynical disobedience, I resume my place on the bed. I wait–half asleep–for the next phase of verbal combat with my mother.  During these early hours, somehow, I manage to negate all thought of the fight. Spotlighting a stumbling conscious towards a memory of a snapshot that belonged to my mother. She looked young–my age–and she was standing next to her mother. Her hair, decorated with curls and waves, demonstrated the symbol of youth and growth. The eyes once possessed, looked bright and exuberant in stark contrast to the current peepers which seemed hurt, tired. She looks more like her mother now than herself in this picture.

– “What do you mean I have nothing to worry about?” my mouth commences to perspire and abruptly dry. I’m on the phone, pacing back and forth in my room, fighting to control the tremors in my arms and squeezing the cordless as to broadcast the palm’s bide to the recipient. “She’s going to pull something stupid and unexpected! She’s holding me back, man, don’t tell me you don’t see that!” The cordless is silent for five seconds, gathering fraudulent aspiring phrases and invalid arguments to the conflict I struggle to narrate. A pit of hopelessness originates and incorporates into my stomach. In reflex, my throat constricts my dry tongue, my eyelids pressure their corresponding counter-lid, my head knots. Breaking silence, the cordless speaks:

“Thing’s will get better man. Your time will come.”

– A tall boy of sixteen is seen exiting the Ruby’s Diner with his youthful mother. The two walk out together, sharing a mother-son moment no other relationship can truly imitate. Brilliantly, the two bounce their happiness off one another and the sew of positive energy evokes there day. The tall boy sports the ensemble of a professional businessman, giving him the visual trait of seeming narcissism. The mother illuminates herself with an equally professional style, red blazer and all. Tonight was a special day for the two. It marked the beginning of a new era, the ending of long lull, and a new hope in the family’s business revenue plan.

The temperature is intolerably hot. Usually, I am pleasant and forgiving of the living quarters provided by a third-world country, but under these circumstances: it’s a hell. A single ceiling fan mocks me, giving the illusion that I should be brought a relief, a breeze. I stare minute by minute at the fan, imagining scenarios where it could detach from the hinges of the hold, crush me, and end misery. My face is swollen, greasy, unbearably warm, it had not been washed for days maybe a week by now. I feel a cluster of blood dried up beneath my eye and each time I blink the hardest part stings my retina like a violent wasp. Breathing was difficult, too. I had to use my mouth causing it to dry up like the desert-world I had abandoned days before. Intervals of “breathe in” consisted of a surplus of warm air rushing into my dry mouth stinging every taste bud in my tongue and hashing my throat. My physical state is handicap. No moving, no eating, no talking. My pain matched the motivation for going through this. All will be better, once the bandages come off.

-Minuscule and inert this dilemma was. The rusted tin cup held up to me, pleading for mercy of my personal currency handle. Click, click, click, and the ominous flashes of bright rapid lights ravaged me and the bum on the corner of Marshall. I attempt looking at the crowd for a hint of what they want me to do, only to be blinded by the web of flashes. Everyone wanted me to perform an act of civil kindness, to exploit and prostitute into the black and white of a Chicago Tribune. Not a frame went uncaptured as I grasped the bum’s tin cup and flung it into the crowd. The nickels’ clang on the street goes unannounced compared to the raping of the camera’s clicks. I see my breathe in the shill air and it reminds me of steam. Everyone yelled, everyone sufficated under the idea of what I’ve just done to man who has lost all in his life. I only hope the paper is filled with a cover of something that happens everyday.

The Third Beginning of the Third Year

In a nocturnal state, the consciousness of humans are questionable to be reasonable or not. This entire night is a stringing between Sunday and Monday; when sleep is scarce you perceive everything as one day. I reflect upon the scrutiny that accompanied the past three terms of a high school career. When all others are sound and undisturbed in their slumbers, I am relinquished from responsibility, the rules of honor, faulty respect, and the anonymous doppelganger I erect like a mannequin to society. My mind is no longer bombarded by the ripples caused by distress and problems. I am a still pond. A body of water.

Through a shallower tone, I stay up to enjoy every second left of this annual recess of school and responsibility. I clench to the peak of a cliff trying not to fall back into the jagged rocks at the bottom of the ravine. Holding on for dear life. I realize that my mentality becomes a simple parody of the treatment and lifestyle of a high school. During the hours of the “bell dictator” I replace my lack of sleep for lack of control. The teacher has the last say now. The parent has the last say now. The GPA has the last say now.

During the twilight of these hours, however, I find refuge in my mind. I can come to terms with my faults. Realize what I have done wrong and right. Plan, and then plan to execute. I can imagine silly goals, realistic potentials, and tap into the most creative parts of my being. Yet, merely hours await until I must return to the fight. Return to the jungle of hormone influenced teenage world.

Tomorrow school resumes:

• AP English – It’s a disgrace that the career I most long to follow is at the dusk of the school’s hours. Hours I cannot function within and find difficult to stay awake. My physical limitations are the only thing keeping me from complete success in this class. I currently hold a B.
• APUSH – Whether its goofing around with a friend or not taking the teacher as seriously as I should, my childish persona outweighs my strive for intellectual knowledge of the past, present, and future of our society and economical trends. The tests seem intricate and greatly detailed. Some people get this class better than others. I have a D.
• Math – Simple really. I’m quiet here. No one of great interest to talk to and I find my personality would be way too upbeat to custom the majority. I have a C.
• APAC – Due to past incidents and tribulations, a theme of betrayal and deceit, and a growing hatred for the very seams of the curriculum. This class has become profoundly emotional. I have given pieces of my soul to every student in this classroom and have a strong connection for them all truly, yet I grow more and more hatred for the atmosphere itself. Something doesn’t add up. I have a D, barely.
• AP Psychology – This is the most mellow class. Closely imitating the atmosphere of a television sitcom, I cannot help but expect a “Boy Meets World” logo to suddenly appear on screen and a short sponsored commercial to follow. Every word I say in this class is perfectly rehearsed and delivered. This wins the prize of most comfortable. I have a C.
• Chemistry – Oddly enough, the class that has proven to have one of the  strictest teacher is also the one that I best feel most knowledgeable in. The topic of chemistry flows easily into my mental capacity and I take full responsibility for last quarters D for not doing my homework when I should.

This is the grounds I currently stand on with each of these classes.

This is what I resume tomorrow.