INT. ALEX'S HOUSE - DAY
The red lights of a digital alarm clock are flashing SIX O' CLOCK accompanied by an awful BEEP BEEP. ALEX's head lifts to look at the clock.
INT. ALEX'S HOUSE - DAY
ALEX has just woken up and is getting ready for work.
Alex (V.o.)
New York is a cold, hard city, and I'm a cold, hard man. I've been living here for years and never once saw a single thing interesting or anything good coming out of this hell-hole. People live on the streets, guns go off every night, and you can always just barely hear that wonderful faint sound of police sirens in the background as you try to doze off at 12:30 in the morning. I've never experienced anything pleasant here, and the only reason I stay is because my job pays excellent money. Which is why, when I met Mr. Gump, I decided to pack my bags and have a change of scene.
INT. Alex's house - day
ALEX is on the phone and pacing about the house in an irritated manner.
ALEX
(into phone)
No...no I specifically heard you say that it would be ready by mond-
(pause)
I was told it would only take the weekend! What so you want me to walk to work every day?
(pause)
Take the bus...
EXT. bus stop - day
title
Monday.
ALEX is sitting on a bus stop bench looking quite irritated and alone. A LOUDLY-SNORING HOBO is taking up the majority of the bench.
ALEX gets up several times to look around impatiently for the bus. After several minutes of waiting, the HOBO awakes with a slight start and stares wide-eyed at ALEX's nice clothes.
ALEX tries to ignore the HOBO, but is unsuccessful.
ALEX
Never seen Eddie Bauer before?
HOBO
(chuckles)
Can't say I've had the privilege of meeting him.
ALEX shifts as far to the end of the bench as possible and the HOBO continues to stare.
hobo
Never sat next to a homeless guy before?
alex
Can't say I've had the privilege
hobo
(laughs)
Well feel yourself privileged my friend.
The HOBO extends his hand out to ALEX and gives a wide, toothy, smile
close up of hobo's face
ALEX is slihtly alarmed by the HOBO's pearly white teeth and smooth, young skin despite his old, shoddy clothing.
HOBO
Gump.
ALEX reluctantly shakes the HOBO's extended hand
ALEX
Alex.
ALEX continues to be alarmed by the pristine condition of the HOBO's skin and teeth. The HOBO notices the stare.
HOBO
I suppose you could call me a clean freak.
ALEX
(flatly)
A clean freak that smells horrible.
HOBO
(laughs)
Can't be the hair.
The HOBO removes a rather dirty toque from his head to reveal long, flowing, blond hair. ALEX stares open-mouthed.
HOBO
There's only one other thing the smell could be, and that's my armpits. However I'm afraid I won't be removing my shirt in these temperatures.
ALEX
(quietly)
It's not that cold out...
The HOBO shrugs and begins to take off his shirt.
ALEX
That won't be necessary! I'll take your word for it.
The HOBO shrugs again and slouches comfortably back into the bus stop bench. There is a short pause.
ALEX
What the hell is that smell if it isn't you?
HOBO
Oh, it's definitely me. Couldn't be anything but. There isn't really anyone else out right now, and your friend Eddie Bauer seems to have given you some nice clothes. I mean look at you you've got--
ALEX
(interrupting)
The smell!
HOBO
Oh, right. My apologies. It's age ALEX; the smell of age.
The HOBO smiles at ALEX as if he's supposed to know exactly what he's talking about.
ALEX
You're younger than I am.
HOBO
Seems that way doesn't it?
ALEX
Yes it seems that way because it is that way Mr. Gump.
HOBO
On the contrary, I'll be turning four thousand on Wednesday. Wednesday. Don't forget that. No one ever seems to remember my birthday these days.
ALEX makes no effort to reply and sits facing straight ahead.
There is a brief moment of awkward silence before the bus arrives.
ALEX hurriedly gets off the bench and boards the bus.
INT. ALEX'S HOUSE - DAY
The red lights of a digital alarm clock are flashing SIX O' CLOCK accompanied by an awful BEEP BEEP. ALEX's head lifts up to look at the clock.
TITLE
Tuesday
series of shots of alex getting ready for the day. types of actions very similar to shots at the opening to show monotonous routine.
EXT. BUS STOP - DAY
The HOBO is sitting by himself at the bus stop with several garbage bags taking up the rest of the bench.
ALEX enters and stands off to the side pretending not to notice the HOBO.
HOBO
(laugh)
Come sit. I ain't gonna make you stand.
The HOBO takes the garbage bags off the bench and puts them at his feet. ALEX reluctantly sits down.
ALEX
What's in the bags?
HOBO
Oh, it's just part of a collection I've been working on over the years.
ALEX
(laughs)
Seriously, how old are you?
HOBO
Three thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-nine.
ALEX
You can't be over twenty-five years old. We went over this yesterday.
HOBO
So you don't believe I'm turning four thousand tomorrow?
ALEX
Of course not! It's common sense!
The HOBO holds up a finger to silence ALEX.
HOBO
Ever seen Lord of the Rings?
ALEX is about to reply, when the bus comes and picks ALEX up.
INT. ALEX'S HOUSE - DAY
Red flashing alarm clock lights: "SIX O' CLOCK" accompanied by an awful BEEP BEEP. ALEX's head lifts to look at the clock.
TITLE
Wednesday.
series of shots same as the other two mornings but played faster.
EXT. BUS STOP - DAY
The HOBO has placed and tied balloons in every place possible around the bus stop and the bus stop bench. The HOBO is sitting contentedly and whistling, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU".
The HOBO stops when he notices ALEX has walked in and is staring open-mouthed. The HOBO gets up to greet ALEX.
HOBO
Did you remember?
ALEX
(sighs)
Happy Birthday.
ALEX and the HOBO sit down on the bench together.
ALEX
I only have one question; why are you doing this?
HOBO
Because it's my birthday.
ALEX gives the HOBO a sarcastic look.
ALEX
You know what I mean. Who are you really? Why are you always here in the morning? How do you know I'm coming?
HOBO
I'm Mr. Gump, and I turned four thousand today, really. As for your other questions, I was here first, and you came the past two days so I just assumed you'd come again today.
ALEX
You weren't hired by one of my relatives to, "change me?"
HOBO
No one's paid me to do anything in a long time. I deal with fellows like you all the time. I do this as a hobby.
ALEX
Stalking people is a hobby?
HOBO
(laughs, shakes head)
You never answered my question yesterday.
ALEX
What question?
HOBO
Lord of the Rings.
ALEX
What about it?
HOBO
Seen it?
ALEX
Yes.
HOBO
Good.
The HOBO removes his toque and lets his long, blonde hair fall around him. The HOBO takes an elastic out of his pocket and puts his hair into a ponytail, revealing long, pointy ears. He smiles at ALEX and points to them.
ALEX stares for several moments while the the HOBO continues to have a playful smile.
ALEX
Nice costume.
The HOBO grabs ALEX's wrist. ALEX pulls away quickly.
ALEX
What are you doing?!
HOBO
Calm down.
(Points to ears)
Feel them.
ALEX slowly reaches up and feels the HOBO's long and pointed ears. His eyes grow wide.
ALEX
They're warm.
The HOBO grins. ALEX gives a slight tug on the ears. The HOBO withdraws quickly.
HOBO
Ow!
ALEX
(mystified)
I'm sorry.
The bus comes and picks ALEX up.
INT. ALEX'S HOUSE - DAY
Red flashing alarm clock lights: "SIX THIRTY". ALEX's head lifts to look at clock. Short pause. ALEX jumps into action.
TITLE
Thursday.
series of shots of alex getting ready. shots are sloppier and more rushed than preparation shots before.
EXT. BUS STOP - DAY
ALEX is hurrying to the bus stop. He is constantly checking his watch. Suddenly he stops dead in his tracks and stares. The bus stop is empty. The HOBO is nowhere to be seen. ALEX slowly walks over and sits down quietly on the bench.
series of shots showing that alex waits for quite a while and is constantly checking to see if the hobo is coming.
The bus comes to pick ALEX up after a long, anxious wait.
int. alex's house Evening
ALEX is setting his alarm to SIX O' CLOCK in the morning to make sure he gets up on time the next day.
INT. ALEX'S HOUSE - DAY
Red flashing alarm clock lights: "SIX O' CLOCK". ALEX's head lifts to look at the clock.
TITLE
Friday.
series of shots showing alex getting ready. The routine is different, and less monotonous.
EXT. BUS STOP - DAY
ALEX is walking hopefully towards the bus stop. He sees the HOBO there, and runs over to greet him. ALEX begins to ask where the HOBO was yesterday, but the HOBO cuts him off.
HOBO
(laughing)
Have some trouble with your alarm clock?
ALEX
(shocked)
How do you know that?
HOBO
I may or may not have ventured around your apartment and made one or two adjustments to one or two doo-dads.
alex
How...how did you get into my apartment?
HOBO
(laughs)
I've been there many times before my friend: the lovely people at the front desk agree entirely with what I do.
ALEX
What do you do? Seriously.
HOBO
Did you miss me yesterday?
ALEX
Yes, but--
HOBO
(interrupting)
Good, so you do have a heart. Congratulations ALEX you passed the first and only test of my five day course.
ALEX is confused.
HOBO
You've been living a very miserable life ALEX.
ALEX
You know nothing about my life
HOBO
On the contrary ALEX, I know more about you than you could ever begin to imagine. I've been watching you for several months now. All you do is eat, sleep, and work. You're living without a purpose. When was the last time you saw your family?
ALEX
(very quietly)
Ten years ago.
HOBO
(sarcastically)
Is that all?
(pause)
Look, ALEX, from what I gathered about you over my time of studying you is that you were living the dream with your family. You had everything: wife, kids, house, two cars, friends...and you left it all. Why?
ALEX wipes away a tear.
HOBO
I'll tell you why. You're a coward. You're afraid of change and therefore believe that you can live your boring, monotonous life the same way you've been living it for the past ten years, and for the next ten after that, with no consequences!
(pause)
Listen, ALEX, I've been alive pretty much since the dawn of time. I've seen a lot of crazy things. I've watched monuments being built, worshipped, and destroyed several hundred years later. I've witnessed the birth and maturity of many children. I've been to nearly every major location in this world and then some. But you know what I found most fascinating out of all of it?
ALEX doesn't reply as another tear drops from his eye.
HOBO
Faith. I've watched humanity go from being united in one, singular truthful belief to splitting off into this, 'what's true for you isn't necessarily true for me' nonsense. Go jump off a cliff and tell me how true the law of gravity is for you. You wouldn't do that, would you ALEX?
ALEX
(stammering)
HOBO
No, of course you wouldn't! It doesn't make any sense gravity is an undeniable fact! There is only right and wrong in this world ALEX! There is no in between! You can't just keep living your life the way you are and believe that it's right for you! It's not right for anyone!
There is an awkward silence for several minutes and the HOBO takes a seat on the bench. ALEX is staring into space, deep in thought.
HOBO
There's a reason you're alive ALEX. There's a reason for everyone to be alive, and it sure as hell isn't eat, sleep and die.
The HOBO stands up and walks away, leaving ALEX alone at the bus stop.
ALEX sits down on the bench staring into space. After several minutes he absent-mindedly looks beside him and sees a small, white business card. He picks it up. It says simply, 'Gump'. ALEX flips it over. The back side reads: "Ecclesiastes 3:12".
Fade out
The End
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
The Elf
I recently wrote this short story, and am currently in the process of turning it into a screenplay for writer's craft.
Monday
New York is a cold, hard city, and I'm a cold, hard man. I've been living here for years and never once saw a single thing interesting or anything good coming out of this hell-hole. People live on the streets, guns go off every night, and you can always just barely hear that wonderful faint sound of police sirens in the background as you try to doze off at 12:30 in the morning. I've never experienced anything pleasant here, and the only reason I stay is because my job pays excellent money.
Which is why, when I met Mr. Gump, I decided to pack my bags and have a change of scene.
It was a cold and windy October morning in the big apple. I was tired, and the last place I wanted to be was work. But, seeing as it was Monday and work was the only reason I strived to keep myself alive, I had to go. My car was having the oil changed so I had to take the subway across town.
Of course, I hate the subway. It always reeked of urine and alcohol, and everyone seemed to take a liking to pushing and shoving on the underground train. Usually by the time we hit downtown it would get really cramped too. I would have taken a cab, but the price to cross town was getting outrageous, and so there I was: cramped and grumpy on my way across town with hobos and poor folk brushing up against me with their dirty bodies.
I stood for most of the ride, but found that the trip across town is much longer and more taxing to the legs on the subway, and reluctantly took one of the few seats that remained unoccupied on the rickety transporter. I quickly realized my mistake, however, when I glanced to my right to take in the sight—and stench—of a most revolting looking beggar. I twisted my head around quickly in hopes of finding another seat, but saw none, and so gave a rather loud huff and slouched uncomfortably into the thin red velvet of the subway chair.
The hobo beside me shifted abruptly, as if waking from a dream, and looked over at me with wide eyes. I pretended not to notice him, and made a point of inhaling through my mouth rather than my nose. There was a young woman and child sitting across from me, so I tried focusing on them to distract from the hobo's somewhat piercing gawk.
I glanced over after several moments to see if the hobo had stopped. He hadn't. I looked straight ahead once again: “Never seen Eddie Bauer before?” I asked in an irritated tone.
The hobo chuckled: “Can't say I've had the privilege of meeting him.” he paused to continue his stare for a moment: “Never smelled a homeless guy before?”
I directed my annoyed stare at the hobo, taking a good look at him for the first time: “Can't say I've had the privilege.” I replied through gritted teeth.
The hobo laughed heartily: “Well feel yourself privileged my friend.”
I took note of his teeth as he opened his mouth to laugh again—ivory white, without a single spot on the gums. In fact, other than his clothes, the hobo looked like a perfectly healthy twenty year-old man. If I were to trade garments with him I would look no different than he did now.
However pretty he may have been, the stench still lingered in my burning nostrils.
“Gump.” he stated as he extended a hand to introduce himself. I looked at his fingernails—clean and well maintained. I hesitated as I grasped the hand: the skin was smoother than any woman's hand I had ever held. I frowned, slightly confused.
The hobo laughed once again: “I suppose you could call me a clean freak.”
“A clean freak that smells horrible.” I stated flatly: I was not interested in making a friend.
The hobo smiled, not at all offended by my direct insult: “Can't be the hair.” he chuckled as he removed a patched and torn toque from his slender head.
It was my turn to stare. The awful-smelling hobo had a head of hair equivalent to a horse: flowing, shimmering, and long. Extremely long. The hair nearly reached the smelly man's hips as he shook his head to release the golden strands from the confines of his winter cap. The hobo laughed aloud at my gaping mouth.
“There's only one other thing it could be,” he said, “but that's my armpits and I'm afraid I won't be removing my shirt in temperatures as cold as this.”
“The subway's heated.” I corrected, and immediately regretted it as the hobo proceeded to remove his shirt: “That won't be necessary!” I said abruptly as I raised a hand in protest: “I'll take your word for it.”
The hobo shrugged and gave a satisfied, 'huff' as he settled himself back into his seat. I wasn't so satisfied: “What the hell is that smell if it isn't you?”
“Oh, it's definitely me.” he corrected, “Couldn't be anything but. Everyone else on this train seems to have had acquaintances with this Eddie Bauer fellow you mentioned. You'd think if he had so many clothes, he'd at least be generous enough to give some away. I mean really—”
“--The smell!” I pressed, rather irritated by the young man's nonchalance.
“Oh, right.” He giggled: “Silly me. It's age my boy; the smell of age.” he smiled at me as if I was supposed to know exactly what he meant.
“You're younger than I am.” I stated flatly
“Seems that way, doesn't it?” he replied in an equal tone.
“Yes it seems that way because it is that way Mr. Gump.” I began clenching my jaw repeatedly: a habit I fancied maintaining whenever I was more than a little vexed.
“On the contrary, I'll be turning four thousand on Wednesday. Wednesday. Don't forget that: no one ever seems to remember my birthday these days.”
I made no effort to reply, and simply returned to my pensive posture of staring ahead and breathing specifically through my mouth as opposed to my nose: Mr. Gump was insane. I should have known: anyone living on the streets who was concerned about hygiene must have some form of a mental illness.
“Are you going to remember?” the hobo startled me out of my contemplation: “Wednesday.” he said.
To my relief, the subway stopped at my station right at that moment, and I hurried out and away as quickly as I could: I enjoyed my simple, boring life, and I didn't need some mentally ill hobo trying to befriend me.
The better part of my day passed without occasion, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I boarded the subway that evening to find the hobo was not there. I laid my head back in silence, and took in a long, relaxing breath: silence
Tuesday
The next morning started out the same as every other day of my life had started: shower, breakfast, and get dressed. Normally I would follow the monotonous routine by hopping into my beautiful BMW and driving to work. But the BMW was in the shop for the week, and I had no interest in paying for a cab across town when the subway was just as easy and much cheaper.
I boarded the subway as I had the previous morning and, sure enough, there was the hobo—and he was looking right at me. I stood facing away from him in hopes that he wouldn't notice me. I thought it was working until I heard him giggling.
“Nice try.” he laughed, “Come sit. I ain't gonna make you stand.” said the odd little man as he hefted a large garbage bag off of the seat next to him.
I couldn't deny that it would be nice to sit through the rather long subway ride, and painstakingly took a seat next to the smelly man: “What's in the bag?” I asked without actually caring.
“Oh just a small part of the collection I've been working on over the years.” I huffed: he said it as if he were my grandfather reminiscing his days of youth.
The hobo turned and gave me a quizzical look: “What?” he asked sternly—or tried to with his youngish voice.
“You can't be over 25 years old.” I explained, “We went over this yesterday.”
The hobo laughed out loud: “So you don't believe I'm turning four thousand tomorrow?”
“Of course not!” I nearly shouted, “It's common sense! No one has lived over 120 years old ever! It's simply not possible!”
The hobo raised an eyebrow: “Ever watched Lord of the Rings?” I opened my mouth to reply, but realized we were at my stop and quickly departed the subway.
Wednesday
He brought balloons. Lots of balloons. I thought I was walking into the apartment of Patch Adam's girlfriend when I stepped onto the subway that morning. I had trouble finding a seat, and when I finally did I somehow managed to sit on a balloon which resulted in a loud and startling, 'POP!'
When I finally settled into the thin velvet chair I heard a familiar chuckle somewhere next to me through the mess of colourful birthday balloons: “Did you remember?”
“Happy birthday.” I sighed in high anticipation of that inquiry since the moment I had seen the balloons.
“I only have one question,” I continued, “how have you managed to be on the same car as me three days in a row?”
The hobo poked his head through the balloons like a gopher: “I've had plenty of experience dealing with fellows like you: it's sort of my hobby.”
“Stalking people is a hobby?” I retorted. The hobo smiled: “You never answered my question yesterday morning.”
“What question?”
“Lord of the Rings.”
“What about it?”
“Seen it?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” the hobo proceeded to remove the toque which had been occupying his head since I first laid eyes upon him. Once again I stared in awe at the hobo's hair: so long and golden. Without saying anything he pulled an elastic out of one his jacket pockets and set the hair in a ponytail behind his slender head. The hobo then pointed to his ears, and I nearly fell out of my seat as my eyes followed his extended index finger.
His ears were pointed. And long. Like an elf. From Lord of the Rings.
I did my best to remain calm and collect my thoughts before making any sort of rash statement towards the pointy ears of the—elf? No. That was ridiculous. There's all kinds of costume stores dotted across New York City. Realistic elf ears would be no problem to find.
“Nice costume.” I said as if nothing had happened.
The hobo didn't laugh this time, but moved to grasp my wrist. I pulled away quickly, thinking that his, 'birthday' meant he get to eat, 'regular people' or something equally as crazy.
“Calm down.” His voice was suddenly very aged and wise; I felt like a two year old being disciplined for inappropriate behaviour. Without meaning to, I extended my arm and felt the pointy ears. They were warm. I gave a slight pull: “Ow!” exclaimed the elf, returning to his, 'normal' voice and retreating his ears back into the concealment of his toque.
I said nothing, but simply stared in disbelief. I stared for the next ten minutes until we reached my stop. I went through the entire day with a blank expression on my face: trying to discern whether or not I had dreamed the subway ride that morning.
I boarded the subway that evening actually hoping to see Mr. Gump, but, as usual, he was nowhere to be found and I went to bed that night with a feeling I hadn't felt in over 10 years: excitement. I had something to look forward to.
Thursday
I woke up Thursday morning with a start and looked at the clock: late. By half an hour. Normally it wouldn't be a big deal due to the fact that I knew several shortcuts to the office—but I had to take the subway.
I raced around the house in a panic: I had been late for work several times before, and the resulting experience was far from pleasant. My boss had threatened termination, and been very clear that next time was the last time.
Of course, it was only a threat. I knew he needed me, and I knew I was the best employee in the entire department. I was a valuable asset, and soon to get promoted. Besides, after three identical threats it was becoming more of a nuisance than anything. No, it wasn't work I was worried about—I didn't want to miss seeing Mr. Gump.
I managed to rush myself up to being 10 minutes late, and literally ran as fast as I could to the subway station. I boarded the first car on the first train that came. I ran on frantically, my eyes darting every which way in search of the odd little man. I saw nothing, and regrettably took a seat—alone—by the door.
My last, tiny flicker of hope was entirely extinguished when the train shuddered and jolted to a start of the long, lonely trip across town. I felt defeated. I was sitting quite literally alone on the subway: not a single human being other than myself occupied the metal shuttle and it was all I could do to keep myself from shouting out in frustration.
I didn't shout. I sat. I thought. And I nearly sobbed.
I thought back on the past ten years: day after day of nothingness; working, eating, sleeping, and simply surviving. I hadn't spoken to my family in several years, I had no friends other than my coworkers and even then I only communicated with them in a business manner. My life was pointless. I was living an empty life: surviving for the sake of survival, and nothing else.
As the subway continued to roll along and collected more passengers at various stops, I cast an ever hopeful glance to the doors every time my ears caught the faint sound of the sliding metal. Every stop became a high point: a moment where I found a sliver of hope and searched frantically with my eyes for a sight of my new found—and only—friend.
It was exhausting; sitting, waiting, and watching, for the very idea of hope had not entered my brain in nearly a decade, and was now overwhelming my entire body and soul in a matter of two hours. By the time I got to my own stop I could hardly move; so spent from an overload of anticipation. I slowly exited the train and gave one final hopeful look around the station for Mr. Gump before trudging up the subway stairs to carry out yet another pointless day at the workplace.
Friday
In over five years of dreamless sleep—for I had gotten so miserable, alone, and senseless through my ten years of solitude that I no longer dreamed—one tends to forget the absolute phenomenal feeling of experiencing a dream.
After returning home from work Thursday night, I was still feeling defeated and overwhelmed by my revelations early that morning on the subway, and proceeded to go straight to bed. No food, no water, just sleep. This means I had slept from six 'o clock PM to six 'o clock AM—twelve hours. The most exhilarating 12 hours of the past ten years of my life took place then: I dreamed. I can't remember what exactly it was I dreamed about, but I dreamed, and I remember the wonderful feeling during and after that dreaming.
I made my way to the subway feeling quite content: I was on time.
My content was overwhelmed with joy when I boarded the subway to see Mr. Gump sitting in his usual spot, and it was all I could do to keep myself from lifting his small figure into a tight embrace. I smiled at the elf and placed myself in the seat next to him. We said nothing for several minutes, when I finally turned to him and started to apologize for not being on the train the previous day.
Mr. Gump had been keeping a straight face until then, but the moment I began explaining myself he burst into uncontrollable laughter: “Have some trouble with your alarm clock?” he asked, “And how was your dream?”
I said nothing and let my jaw hang limply in disbelief: “Y-.....You did that?” I finally stammered.
“Of course!” Mr. Gump stated matter-of-factly, “You think your alarm can just change itself?”
“How did you know about my dream?”
“It almost always comes after the Thursday.” he muttered
I frowned: “What's that supposed to mean?”
“I suspect you had some revelations yesterday in my absence, yes?” Mr. Gump asked, ignoring my question.
“Well, yes, but--”
“I've known you much longer than you've known me my friend.” Mr. Gump said as he turned to look at me again: “I've been watching you for several months now: eating, sleeping, working. I must say it's a very boring and demeaning routine, and one I've seen many times before.”
I shifted uncomfortably: Mr. Gump was stalking me?
“It's kind of a hobby of mine you see: I like to, 'fix' people.”
“What do you mean, 'fix'?” I frowned.
“Listen young man I've been alive for four thousand years. I've seen a lot of crazy things. I've watched monuments being built, worshipped, and destroyed several hundred years later. I've witnessed the birth and maturity of many children. I've been to nearly every major location in this world and then some, and you know what I've noticed?”
I made no effort to reply.
“People can't be pleased.” he huffed: “Look at us: we've gone from the innocence of the first man and woman to the creations of civilizations which eventually became so evil they were obliterated by the very force that created them. We've searched for happiness and found it in Jesus when we came, but then decided we'd rather have him dead.
I've watched the world go from being united by one, singular, truthful faith, to splitting off into the modern day, 'What's true for you isn't necessarily true for me' nonsense.”
I could see the effect of the age upon Mr. Gump in that moment: the talk of humanity's mistakes was causing him grief and anger—yet he kept going with his rant:
“Tell me something my dear boy,” he said, “you believe in the law of gravity, correct?”
“Well....yes.” I muttered
“Of course you do it's an undeniable fact that's constantly effecting us. One cannot deny that gravity keeps us rooted to our home and likewise our home rooted to the earth, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Right so say I decide one day that the law of gravity isn't true for me: I don't believe in it anymore. It's silly talk: I choose to believe that gravity is not real and that I can fly. I gather a group of followers and we all go jump off a cliff. We don't believe in the law of gravity so it won't apply to us, right?”
“Well...” I stammered
“Wrong!” shouted Mr. Gump, and I was quite taken aback by his sudden outburst: “Just because humanity chooses to not believe in something does not mean that it will not effect them! I was there at the crucifixion of Christ! I know for a fact it is true, and the modern day human cannot just deny the fact and live their life by what each and every fellow believes to be, 'true for me but not necessarily true for others'! It doesn't work that way, boy!”
“Okay...” I muttered, “but what does that have to do with me?”
Mr. Gump relaxed a little and retreated more fully into his chair: “Because that is exactly the way you are living: Only you believe nothing. You live out your life day to day with no purpose and no intent, except to earn your next dollar for your next meal. Your existence is empty, and your life will forever be empty if you don't do something about it soon.”
With that final statement Mr. Gump shook my hand and left the train at the next stop, leaving me open-mouthed and dumbfounded by his words.
I sat on the train until it reached my station, but I didn't go to work. I got off, hailed a taxi, and went home. I called my boss and informed him I would not be coming into work that day—or ever again.
I packed my entire wardrobe into dusty suitcases and called my parents to let them know I would be coming for a visit.
It was my mother who picked up. She sobbed the entire time.
I went to the airport and bought the first ticket to ______ --home.
As I boarded the plane I looked out the window and surveyed the runway, and thought I saw a young homeless man waving to me.
I waved back.
Monday
New York is a cold, hard city, and I'm a cold, hard man. I've been living here for years and never once saw a single thing interesting or anything good coming out of this hell-hole. People live on the streets, guns go off every night, and you can always just barely hear that wonderful faint sound of police sirens in the background as you try to doze off at 12:30 in the morning. I've never experienced anything pleasant here, and the only reason I stay is because my job pays excellent money.
Which is why, when I met Mr. Gump, I decided to pack my bags and have a change of scene.
It was a cold and windy October morning in the big apple. I was tired, and the last place I wanted to be was work. But, seeing as it was Monday and work was the only reason I strived to keep myself alive, I had to go. My car was having the oil changed so I had to take the subway across town.
Of course, I hate the subway. It always reeked of urine and alcohol, and everyone seemed to take a liking to pushing and shoving on the underground train. Usually by the time we hit downtown it would get really cramped too. I would have taken a cab, but the price to cross town was getting outrageous, and so there I was: cramped and grumpy on my way across town with hobos and poor folk brushing up against me with their dirty bodies.
I stood for most of the ride, but found that the trip across town is much longer and more taxing to the legs on the subway, and reluctantly took one of the few seats that remained unoccupied on the rickety transporter. I quickly realized my mistake, however, when I glanced to my right to take in the sight—and stench—of a most revolting looking beggar. I twisted my head around quickly in hopes of finding another seat, but saw none, and so gave a rather loud huff and slouched uncomfortably into the thin red velvet of the subway chair.
The hobo beside me shifted abruptly, as if waking from a dream, and looked over at me with wide eyes. I pretended not to notice him, and made a point of inhaling through my mouth rather than my nose. There was a young woman and child sitting across from me, so I tried focusing on them to distract from the hobo's somewhat piercing gawk.
I glanced over after several moments to see if the hobo had stopped. He hadn't. I looked straight ahead once again: “Never seen Eddie Bauer before?” I asked in an irritated tone.
The hobo chuckled: “Can't say I've had the privilege of meeting him.” he paused to continue his stare for a moment: “Never smelled a homeless guy before?”
I directed my annoyed stare at the hobo, taking a good look at him for the first time: “Can't say I've had the privilege.” I replied through gritted teeth.
The hobo laughed heartily: “Well feel yourself privileged my friend.”
I took note of his teeth as he opened his mouth to laugh again—ivory white, without a single spot on the gums. In fact, other than his clothes, the hobo looked like a perfectly healthy twenty year-old man. If I were to trade garments with him I would look no different than he did now.
However pretty he may have been, the stench still lingered in my burning nostrils.
“Gump.” he stated as he extended a hand to introduce himself. I looked at his fingernails—clean and well maintained. I hesitated as I grasped the hand: the skin was smoother than any woman's hand I had ever held. I frowned, slightly confused.
The hobo laughed once again: “I suppose you could call me a clean freak.”
“A clean freak that smells horrible.” I stated flatly: I was not interested in making a friend.
The hobo smiled, not at all offended by my direct insult: “Can't be the hair.” he chuckled as he removed a patched and torn toque from his slender head.
It was my turn to stare. The awful-smelling hobo had a head of hair equivalent to a horse: flowing, shimmering, and long. Extremely long. The hair nearly reached the smelly man's hips as he shook his head to release the golden strands from the confines of his winter cap. The hobo laughed aloud at my gaping mouth.
“There's only one other thing it could be,” he said, “but that's my armpits and I'm afraid I won't be removing my shirt in temperatures as cold as this.”
“The subway's heated.” I corrected, and immediately regretted it as the hobo proceeded to remove his shirt: “That won't be necessary!” I said abruptly as I raised a hand in protest: “I'll take your word for it.”
The hobo shrugged and gave a satisfied, 'huff' as he settled himself back into his seat. I wasn't so satisfied: “What the hell is that smell if it isn't you?”
“Oh, it's definitely me.” he corrected, “Couldn't be anything but. Everyone else on this train seems to have had acquaintances with this Eddie Bauer fellow you mentioned. You'd think if he had so many clothes, he'd at least be generous enough to give some away. I mean really—”
“--The smell!” I pressed, rather irritated by the young man's nonchalance.
“Oh, right.” He giggled: “Silly me. It's age my boy; the smell of age.” he smiled at me as if I was supposed to know exactly what he meant.
“You're younger than I am.” I stated flatly
“Seems that way, doesn't it?” he replied in an equal tone.
“Yes it seems that way because it is that way Mr. Gump.” I began clenching my jaw repeatedly: a habit I fancied maintaining whenever I was more than a little vexed.
“On the contrary, I'll be turning four thousand on Wednesday. Wednesday. Don't forget that: no one ever seems to remember my birthday these days.”
I made no effort to reply, and simply returned to my pensive posture of staring ahead and breathing specifically through my mouth as opposed to my nose: Mr. Gump was insane. I should have known: anyone living on the streets who was concerned about hygiene must have some form of a mental illness.
“Are you going to remember?” the hobo startled me out of my contemplation: “Wednesday.” he said.
To my relief, the subway stopped at my station right at that moment, and I hurried out and away as quickly as I could: I enjoyed my simple, boring life, and I didn't need some mentally ill hobo trying to befriend me.
The better part of my day passed without occasion, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I boarded the subway that evening to find the hobo was not there. I laid my head back in silence, and took in a long, relaxing breath: silence
Tuesday
The next morning started out the same as every other day of my life had started: shower, breakfast, and get dressed. Normally I would follow the monotonous routine by hopping into my beautiful BMW and driving to work. But the BMW was in the shop for the week, and I had no interest in paying for a cab across town when the subway was just as easy and much cheaper.
I boarded the subway as I had the previous morning and, sure enough, there was the hobo—and he was looking right at me. I stood facing away from him in hopes that he wouldn't notice me. I thought it was working until I heard him giggling.
“Nice try.” he laughed, “Come sit. I ain't gonna make you stand.” said the odd little man as he hefted a large garbage bag off of the seat next to him.
I couldn't deny that it would be nice to sit through the rather long subway ride, and painstakingly took a seat next to the smelly man: “What's in the bag?” I asked without actually caring.
“Oh just a small part of the collection I've been working on over the years.” I huffed: he said it as if he were my grandfather reminiscing his days of youth.
The hobo turned and gave me a quizzical look: “What?” he asked sternly—or tried to with his youngish voice.
“You can't be over 25 years old.” I explained, “We went over this yesterday.”
The hobo laughed out loud: “So you don't believe I'm turning four thousand tomorrow?”
“Of course not!” I nearly shouted, “It's common sense! No one has lived over 120 years old ever! It's simply not possible!”
The hobo raised an eyebrow: “Ever watched Lord of the Rings?” I opened my mouth to reply, but realized we were at my stop and quickly departed the subway.
Wednesday
He brought balloons. Lots of balloons. I thought I was walking into the apartment of Patch Adam's girlfriend when I stepped onto the subway that morning. I had trouble finding a seat, and when I finally did I somehow managed to sit on a balloon which resulted in a loud and startling, 'POP!'
When I finally settled into the thin velvet chair I heard a familiar chuckle somewhere next to me through the mess of colourful birthday balloons: “Did you remember?”
“Happy birthday.” I sighed in high anticipation of that inquiry since the moment I had seen the balloons.
“I only have one question,” I continued, “how have you managed to be on the same car as me three days in a row?”
The hobo poked his head through the balloons like a gopher: “I've had plenty of experience dealing with fellows like you: it's sort of my hobby.”
“Stalking people is a hobby?” I retorted. The hobo smiled: “You never answered my question yesterday morning.”
“What question?”
“Lord of the Rings.”
“What about it?”
“Seen it?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” the hobo proceeded to remove the toque which had been occupying his head since I first laid eyes upon him. Once again I stared in awe at the hobo's hair: so long and golden. Without saying anything he pulled an elastic out of one his jacket pockets and set the hair in a ponytail behind his slender head. The hobo then pointed to his ears, and I nearly fell out of my seat as my eyes followed his extended index finger.
His ears were pointed. And long. Like an elf. From Lord of the Rings.
I did my best to remain calm and collect my thoughts before making any sort of rash statement towards the pointy ears of the—elf? No. That was ridiculous. There's all kinds of costume stores dotted across New York City. Realistic elf ears would be no problem to find.
“Nice costume.” I said as if nothing had happened.
The hobo didn't laugh this time, but moved to grasp my wrist. I pulled away quickly, thinking that his, 'birthday' meant he get to eat, 'regular people' or something equally as crazy.
“Calm down.” His voice was suddenly very aged and wise; I felt like a two year old being disciplined for inappropriate behaviour. Without meaning to, I extended my arm and felt the pointy ears. They were warm. I gave a slight pull: “Ow!” exclaimed the elf, returning to his, 'normal' voice and retreating his ears back into the concealment of his toque.
I said nothing, but simply stared in disbelief. I stared for the next ten minutes until we reached my stop. I went through the entire day with a blank expression on my face: trying to discern whether or not I had dreamed the subway ride that morning.
I boarded the subway that evening actually hoping to see Mr. Gump, but, as usual, he was nowhere to be found and I went to bed that night with a feeling I hadn't felt in over 10 years: excitement. I had something to look forward to.
Thursday
I woke up Thursday morning with a start and looked at the clock: late. By half an hour. Normally it wouldn't be a big deal due to the fact that I knew several shortcuts to the office—but I had to take the subway.
I raced around the house in a panic: I had been late for work several times before, and the resulting experience was far from pleasant. My boss had threatened termination, and been very clear that next time was the last time.
Of course, it was only a threat. I knew he needed me, and I knew I was the best employee in the entire department. I was a valuable asset, and soon to get promoted. Besides, after three identical threats it was becoming more of a nuisance than anything. No, it wasn't work I was worried about—I didn't want to miss seeing Mr. Gump.
I managed to rush myself up to being 10 minutes late, and literally ran as fast as I could to the subway station. I boarded the first car on the first train that came. I ran on frantically, my eyes darting every which way in search of the odd little man. I saw nothing, and regrettably took a seat—alone—by the door.
My last, tiny flicker of hope was entirely extinguished when the train shuddered and jolted to a start of the long, lonely trip across town. I felt defeated. I was sitting quite literally alone on the subway: not a single human being other than myself occupied the metal shuttle and it was all I could do to keep myself from shouting out in frustration.
I didn't shout. I sat. I thought. And I nearly sobbed.
I thought back on the past ten years: day after day of nothingness; working, eating, sleeping, and simply surviving. I hadn't spoken to my family in several years, I had no friends other than my coworkers and even then I only communicated with them in a business manner. My life was pointless. I was living an empty life: surviving for the sake of survival, and nothing else.
As the subway continued to roll along and collected more passengers at various stops, I cast an ever hopeful glance to the doors every time my ears caught the faint sound of the sliding metal. Every stop became a high point: a moment where I found a sliver of hope and searched frantically with my eyes for a sight of my new found—and only—friend.
It was exhausting; sitting, waiting, and watching, for the very idea of hope had not entered my brain in nearly a decade, and was now overwhelming my entire body and soul in a matter of two hours. By the time I got to my own stop I could hardly move; so spent from an overload of anticipation. I slowly exited the train and gave one final hopeful look around the station for Mr. Gump before trudging up the subway stairs to carry out yet another pointless day at the workplace.
Friday
In over five years of dreamless sleep—for I had gotten so miserable, alone, and senseless through my ten years of solitude that I no longer dreamed—one tends to forget the absolute phenomenal feeling of experiencing a dream.
After returning home from work Thursday night, I was still feeling defeated and overwhelmed by my revelations early that morning on the subway, and proceeded to go straight to bed. No food, no water, just sleep. This means I had slept from six 'o clock PM to six 'o clock AM—twelve hours. The most exhilarating 12 hours of the past ten years of my life took place then: I dreamed. I can't remember what exactly it was I dreamed about, but I dreamed, and I remember the wonderful feeling during and after that dreaming.
I made my way to the subway feeling quite content: I was on time.
My content was overwhelmed with joy when I boarded the subway to see Mr. Gump sitting in his usual spot, and it was all I could do to keep myself from lifting his small figure into a tight embrace. I smiled at the elf and placed myself in the seat next to him. We said nothing for several minutes, when I finally turned to him and started to apologize for not being on the train the previous day.
Mr. Gump had been keeping a straight face until then, but the moment I began explaining myself he burst into uncontrollable laughter: “Have some trouble with your alarm clock?” he asked, “And how was your dream?”
I said nothing and let my jaw hang limply in disbelief: “Y-.....You did that?” I finally stammered.
“Of course!” Mr. Gump stated matter-of-factly, “You think your alarm can just change itself?”
“How did you know about my dream?”
“It almost always comes after the Thursday.” he muttered
I frowned: “What's that supposed to mean?”
“I suspect you had some revelations yesterday in my absence, yes?” Mr. Gump asked, ignoring my question.
“Well, yes, but--”
“I've known you much longer than you've known me my friend.” Mr. Gump said as he turned to look at me again: “I've been watching you for several months now: eating, sleeping, working. I must say it's a very boring and demeaning routine, and one I've seen many times before.”
I shifted uncomfortably: Mr. Gump was stalking me?
“It's kind of a hobby of mine you see: I like to, 'fix' people.”
“What do you mean, 'fix'?” I frowned.
“Listen young man I've been alive for four thousand years. I've seen a lot of crazy things. I've watched monuments being built, worshipped, and destroyed several hundred years later. I've witnessed the birth and maturity of many children. I've been to nearly every major location in this world and then some, and you know what I've noticed?”
I made no effort to reply.
“People can't be pleased.” he huffed: “Look at us: we've gone from the innocence of the first man and woman to the creations of civilizations which eventually became so evil they were obliterated by the very force that created them. We've searched for happiness and found it in Jesus when we came, but then decided we'd rather have him dead.
I've watched the world go from being united by one, singular, truthful faith, to splitting off into the modern day, 'What's true for you isn't necessarily true for me' nonsense.”
I could see the effect of the age upon Mr. Gump in that moment: the talk of humanity's mistakes was causing him grief and anger—yet he kept going with his rant:
“Tell me something my dear boy,” he said, “you believe in the law of gravity, correct?”
“Well....yes.” I muttered
“Of course you do it's an undeniable fact that's constantly effecting us. One cannot deny that gravity keeps us rooted to our home and likewise our home rooted to the earth, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Right so say I decide one day that the law of gravity isn't true for me: I don't believe in it anymore. It's silly talk: I choose to believe that gravity is not real and that I can fly. I gather a group of followers and we all go jump off a cliff. We don't believe in the law of gravity so it won't apply to us, right?”
“Well...” I stammered
“Wrong!” shouted Mr. Gump, and I was quite taken aback by his sudden outburst: “Just because humanity chooses to not believe in something does not mean that it will not effect them! I was there at the crucifixion of Christ! I know for a fact it is true, and the modern day human cannot just deny the fact and live their life by what each and every fellow believes to be, 'true for me but not necessarily true for others'! It doesn't work that way, boy!”
“Okay...” I muttered, “but what does that have to do with me?”
Mr. Gump relaxed a little and retreated more fully into his chair: “Because that is exactly the way you are living: Only you believe nothing. You live out your life day to day with no purpose and no intent, except to earn your next dollar for your next meal. Your existence is empty, and your life will forever be empty if you don't do something about it soon.”
With that final statement Mr. Gump shook my hand and left the train at the next stop, leaving me open-mouthed and dumbfounded by his words.
I sat on the train until it reached my station, but I didn't go to work. I got off, hailed a taxi, and went home. I called my boss and informed him I would not be coming into work that day—or ever again.
I packed my entire wardrobe into dusty suitcases and called my parents to let them know I would be coming for a visit.
It was my mother who picked up. She sobbed the entire time.
I went to the airport and bought the first ticket to ______ --home.
As I boarded the plane I looked out the window and surveyed the runway, and thought I saw a young homeless man waving to me.
I waved back.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Watch out
I woke up today. I had breakfast, had a shower, and brushed my teeth. I rushed out to the bus thinking I would be late, and ended up standing there for ten minutes feeling like an idiot. I should really get a new watch.
I got on the bus today. I sat in my favourite seat: farthest back on the left. Most people complain that the back of the bus is too bumpy. I like it. It helps me think. I pulled out my iPod and turned it to my favourite song. It's a slower kinda song, like the kind that makes you feel sentimental and...tired.
I fell asleep on the bus today. I had a really good dream. I dreamt I was a little green pea bouncing in a frying pan amongst millions of other little green peas. Everyone of us peas was happy and giddy. Then someone turned the stove on. That's when I woke up. It was kind of a good thing: we pulled into the bus loop two minutes later. Make that three. I really need a new watch.
I went to my locker today. Upon opening it, I was greeted with the wonderful stench of old gym clothes. Gross. I grabbed a couple of oversized text books and stuffed them into an undersized backpack. I was about to leave for class, but looked at the time and found—to my surprise—I was a couple minutes early today. I got out my laptop and propped myself against the wall. It's about time I got to work some of my overdue projects.
I was late for my first class today. Wow, I really need to get a new watch, and I should probably keep that in mind so I don't keep using the piece of junk which currently occupies my wrist. I won't throw it out though; that would just be silly.
I sat down at my desk today. We were doing review for a test. I pulled out my iPod and turned on my favourite song. It's that slower kinda song. The one that makes you feel sentimental and...tired.
I fell asleep in my first class today. I continued my dream about being a little green pea in a frying pan. The heat had been turned on by now, and every one of the bouncing little green peas was crying out in agony every time they hit the merciless metal surface of our frying pan home. For some reason I wasn't feeling the pain, and continued to bounce around happily. This went on for several minutes when a large wooden spoon came down and started tossing us about: “How rude.” I thought. Then I woke up. I looked at my watch: ten minutes left of class. I quickly got back to doing review and was just getting focused when the bell rang five minutes before I thought it would. Right. Watch.
I was almost late for my second class today. Luckily it's not too far from my first class, so I had no trouble. In fact the bell didn't ring until I sat down in my seat. Bonus. That is, until I find out all we're doing is working on a new project. I never even started the last one. So I turned on my iPod once again and started working on the last project. Even when I put my iPod on shuffle, my favourite song still managed to come on. You know, the slower kinda song that makes you feel really sentimental and...tired.
I fell asleep in my second class today. I went back into frying pan land where there were burning peas and big wooden spoons. By now the wooden spoon had stopped batting everyone about and we seemed at peace: able to bounce about all we wanted again in our big metal frying pan. Then a spoon came. It started scooping us out one by one, placing us on pretty china plates. Then a fork came down. I awoke with a start: what a horrible dream. I looked at my watch: half an hour of class left.
I almost finished an overdue project in class today. I was just adding some finishing touches when I was interrupted—not saved—by the bell. I looked at my watch: “It's all your fault.” I muttered as I bustled to my locker to get some lunch. “Hey Benny boy!” I heard my name. I turned around to see my best friend Ryan running over holding car keys: “I got my new ride today man! Wanna go for a spin?” He has a huge grin on his face. “Sure.” I replied, “Why not?”
I drove my best friend's new car today. He even let me put my iPod on. I put on my favourite song. It's not much of a driving song, but it makes you feel sentimental and...tired. I was just starting to get back into my pea dream when I heard a faint, “Watch out!” Then something hit me—really hard.
I got in a car accident today. I woke up in the hospital about an hour later—actually it might have been a little sooner or later than that—I wasn't wearing my watch. My dad was standing over me with a concerned look on his old face: “You feeling okay son?” “Yea,” I replied, “do I look okay?” he laughed: “You'll be fine: just a few broken bones and some stitches is what the doctor's saying.”
“How's Ryan?”
“He's fine: didn't even break a bone. In fact, his car isn't even totalled or in that bad of a condition. He offered to buy you something as a get well soon present but he wants you to choose. Anything you have in mind?”
“Yea, a watch.”
I got on the bus today. I sat in my favourite seat: farthest back on the left. Most people complain that the back of the bus is too bumpy. I like it. It helps me think. I pulled out my iPod and turned it to my favourite song. It's a slower kinda song, like the kind that makes you feel sentimental and...tired.
I fell asleep on the bus today. I had a really good dream. I dreamt I was a little green pea bouncing in a frying pan amongst millions of other little green peas. Everyone of us peas was happy and giddy. Then someone turned the stove on. That's when I woke up. It was kind of a good thing: we pulled into the bus loop two minutes later. Make that three. I really need a new watch.
I went to my locker today. Upon opening it, I was greeted with the wonderful stench of old gym clothes. Gross. I grabbed a couple of oversized text books and stuffed them into an undersized backpack. I was about to leave for class, but looked at the time and found—to my surprise—I was a couple minutes early today. I got out my laptop and propped myself against the wall. It's about time I got to work some of my overdue projects.
I was late for my first class today. Wow, I really need to get a new watch, and I should probably keep that in mind so I don't keep using the piece of junk which currently occupies my wrist. I won't throw it out though; that would just be silly.
I sat down at my desk today. We were doing review for a test. I pulled out my iPod and turned on my favourite song. It's that slower kinda song. The one that makes you feel sentimental and...tired.
I fell asleep in my first class today. I continued my dream about being a little green pea in a frying pan. The heat had been turned on by now, and every one of the bouncing little green peas was crying out in agony every time they hit the merciless metal surface of our frying pan home. For some reason I wasn't feeling the pain, and continued to bounce around happily. This went on for several minutes when a large wooden spoon came down and started tossing us about: “How rude.” I thought. Then I woke up. I looked at my watch: ten minutes left of class. I quickly got back to doing review and was just getting focused when the bell rang five minutes before I thought it would. Right. Watch.
I was almost late for my second class today. Luckily it's not too far from my first class, so I had no trouble. In fact the bell didn't ring until I sat down in my seat. Bonus. That is, until I find out all we're doing is working on a new project. I never even started the last one. So I turned on my iPod once again and started working on the last project. Even when I put my iPod on shuffle, my favourite song still managed to come on. You know, the slower kinda song that makes you feel really sentimental and...tired.
I fell asleep in my second class today. I went back into frying pan land where there were burning peas and big wooden spoons. By now the wooden spoon had stopped batting everyone about and we seemed at peace: able to bounce about all we wanted again in our big metal frying pan. Then a spoon came. It started scooping us out one by one, placing us on pretty china plates. Then a fork came down. I awoke with a start: what a horrible dream. I looked at my watch: half an hour of class left.
I almost finished an overdue project in class today. I was just adding some finishing touches when I was interrupted—not saved—by the bell. I looked at my watch: “It's all your fault.” I muttered as I bustled to my locker to get some lunch. “Hey Benny boy!” I heard my name. I turned around to see my best friend Ryan running over holding car keys: “I got my new ride today man! Wanna go for a spin?” He has a huge grin on his face. “Sure.” I replied, “Why not?”
I drove my best friend's new car today. He even let me put my iPod on. I put on my favourite song. It's not much of a driving song, but it makes you feel sentimental and...tired. I was just starting to get back into my pea dream when I heard a faint, “Watch out!” Then something hit me—really hard.
I got in a car accident today. I woke up in the hospital about an hour later—actually it might have been a little sooner or later than that—I wasn't wearing my watch. My dad was standing over me with a concerned look on his old face: “You feeling okay son?” “Yea,” I replied, “do I look okay?” he laughed: “You'll be fine: just a few broken bones and some stitches is what the doctor's saying.”
“How's Ryan?”
“He's fine: didn't even break a bone. In fact, his car isn't even totalled or in that bad of a condition. He offered to buy you something as a get well soon present but he wants you to choose. Anything you have in mind?”
“Yea, a watch.”
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
The Voice of Reason
One of the most difficult and most frequently asked questions in the world is, ‘why?’. More specifically, ‘why write?’. And I say, indeed, why write? What is the reason? There is, of course, the motivation, for motivation and writing go hand in hand, but what is the reason to write? Some say that motivation and reason are one and the same but I beg to differ.
Motivation is inspiration and ideas. Motivation is the bird that flits past your window, or the blade of grass tilted slightly more the left than all the other blades of grass. Motivation is the buoy you see sitting alone on the bay: swaying back and forth in a sad sort of motion. Motivation is a comment you heard on the bus this morning. Motivation is a dream you had the other night. Motivation is someone being pulled over for speeding. Motivation is that one idea you have which becomes a seven hundred page novel, and later on an award-winning movie.
Now imagine you have just finished scribing that seven hundred page novel and days, months, perhaps even years have passed since the original motivation ebbed into your creative mind on a cool summer evening. You sit down in front of the hearth, happily, with a glass of scotch in your hand and a sweet cigar in your mouth. You contemplate on you just-finished novel. You do not yet know that it will be published and it will be an award-winning movie. For all you know you may have just wasted seven hundred perfectly good pieces of paper on something that is nothing more than the simple ramblings of an under-accomplished writer.
Why did you write this possible masterpiece? What was the reason for it? Obviously you wrote it because you had motivation and the idea needed to escape, but what now? Why did you put this down on paper? Moreover, why seven hundred pieces of paper? You could have simply let the idea rot in a journal or waste away on your voice recorder as a forgotten memo. But for some reason this one idea escaped the confines of your journal prison and elaborated itself on the seven hundred pages which sit upon your writer’s desk at this moment. This idea is a story of adventure and excitement, wile and wit, and betrayal. But what purpose does it serve? Why did you write it? It’s not even true.
I told you that, ‘why’ is one of the world’s hardest questions to answer.
And yet, the reason for writing is so simple. If you write, you have a talent, whether you are a, ‘good’ writer or not. You have the inspiration and the motivation to write, so do it. Even if one writes tales of lore and fantasy, there is always a lesson to be learned from the tale. I myself read many fantasy novels, and many a time have learned more life lessons in one reading then in a week of schooling. The purpose of writing is to inspire and bring joy to others. (However, if you really want to get technical, why do anything? You only die and leave everything behind anyway. Isn’t why such a tricky question?) Write to entertain. Make people cry, make children laugh, make old folks reminisce, and give people a reason to read. Do not write to create another dust collector or shelf filler. Use your inspiration to create inspiration.
Why write? Why not? You have nothing to lose.
Motivation is inspiration and ideas. Motivation is the bird that flits past your window, or the blade of grass tilted slightly more the left than all the other blades of grass. Motivation is the buoy you see sitting alone on the bay: swaying back and forth in a sad sort of motion. Motivation is a comment you heard on the bus this morning. Motivation is a dream you had the other night. Motivation is someone being pulled over for speeding. Motivation is that one idea you have which becomes a seven hundred page novel, and later on an award-winning movie.
Now imagine you have just finished scribing that seven hundred page novel and days, months, perhaps even years have passed since the original motivation ebbed into your creative mind on a cool summer evening. You sit down in front of the hearth, happily, with a glass of scotch in your hand and a sweet cigar in your mouth. You contemplate on you just-finished novel. You do not yet know that it will be published and it will be an award-winning movie. For all you know you may have just wasted seven hundred perfectly good pieces of paper on something that is nothing more than the simple ramblings of an under-accomplished writer.
Why did you write this possible masterpiece? What was the reason for it? Obviously you wrote it because you had motivation and the idea needed to escape, but what now? Why did you put this down on paper? Moreover, why seven hundred pieces of paper? You could have simply let the idea rot in a journal or waste away on your voice recorder as a forgotten memo. But for some reason this one idea escaped the confines of your journal prison and elaborated itself on the seven hundred pages which sit upon your writer’s desk at this moment. This idea is a story of adventure and excitement, wile and wit, and betrayal. But what purpose does it serve? Why did you write it? It’s not even true.
I told you that, ‘why’ is one of the world’s hardest questions to answer.
And yet, the reason for writing is so simple. If you write, you have a talent, whether you are a, ‘good’ writer or not. You have the inspiration and the motivation to write, so do it. Even if one writes tales of lore and fantasy, there is always a lesson to be learned from the tale. I myself read many fantasy novels, and many a time have learned more life lessons in one reading then in a week of schooling. The purpose of writing is to inspire and bring joy to others. (However, if you really want to get technical, why do anything? You only die and leave everything behind anyway. Isn’t why such a tricky question?) Write to entertain. Make people cry, make children laugh, make old folks reminisce, and give people a reason to read. Do not write to create another dust collector or shelf filler. Use your inspiration to create inspiration.
Why write? Why not? You have nothing to lose.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Prank'd
Some days are just not your day. Some days you want to throw the TV remote at the TV, and then throw the TV out the window. Some days you want to stop in traffic and sit there because the guy behind you is tailgating you. Some days you want to scream at the top of your lungs until they explode, and then scream some more afterwards. Some days you just want to curl up into a ball and cry. And some days are just simply bad days.
Like today.
Woke up late, had a freezing cold shower, fell down the stairs and bumped my shin, had a horrible breakfast and then couldn't find my toothbrush. Couldn't start the car because the lights had been left on. Had to get a jump start from my grumpy neighbor who I hate. Got stuck in traffic so I was late for work. Got yelled at by my boss for being late. Went to get a coffee but it was cold--drank some anyway. Then the computer wouldn't start. Crawled under the desk to see what was wrong and spilled cold coffee on my back. Jumped in surprise and hit my head on the bottom of my desk which knocked the computer monitor onto the floor. Now the screen's cracked. Got up to go to the washroom and yell. Shirt got caught on the edge of my cubicle and the whole thing fell over. I just walked away. Got in the washroom and realized I forgot to shave. Yelled. Went back to my cubicle and everyone in the office was standing around it. Picked up my cubicle and got on the phone to order a new computer. Put on hold--for five hours. Tried to explain to my boss why I got nothing done today. Got yelled at again. Went to go home and my tire was flat. Called a tow truck. Waited two hours. Got a two-hundred dollar bill for having my tire filled with air. Got stuck in traffic on the way home. Got pulled over by a police officer...
Great. Just what I need on a day like today. A ticket. I hate the awkward spanse of time between the cop pulling you over and then actually getting out of the car to come and talk to you. Seriously, what do they do in there? Must be writing down my license plate number or something, I wasn't even speeding! Did I make an illegal lane change? This guy better give me a warning because I don't even know that I did anything wrong. He must be a new cop, just started a while ago. Stupid beginners. I don't need a ticket right now, I have bills to pay! Looks like another month without my new boat. What an asshole, this cop is taking away my chance to get a boat! I bet he knows it! Whatever, here he comes.
Roll down my window.
"What seems to be the problem officer?" he has a huge grin on his face. Of course he does, he must be having a great day. Asshole.
"Well my friend I was just--oh, my apologies sir."
"I'm sorry?" he is a beginner; friggin idiot...
"No I just thought you were someone else. You have the exact some car as a friend of mine and I wanted to give him a little scare as a joke seeing as its been real slow today. You can be on your way sir, sorry about the confusion." he starts walking back to his car.
"What?" take of my seatbelt: this is the last straw.
"It was all a joke sir you did nothing wrong you be on your wa--okay sir I need you to step back into your car." yea, now he's having a slow day.
"I have had the worst day today, and you expect me to take something like this as okay? I'm stressin out because I can't afford a ticket right now, and you tell me it's a joke?" walking towards the cop, startin to get real sarcastic. Turns out he's the one I'm going to lose it on: "It's people like you, 'officer' who make me so mad." cop pulls out his gun.
I'm standing on the side of a freeway with a gun being pointed at me.
Keep walking towards the cop.
"Sir I need you to calm down and get back into your car."
"You my friend, are a complete asshole."
Jump at the cop, get shot in the leg. Fall over and land near his feet. Cop starts hand-cuffing me, punch him in the face. Get pepper sprayed. Taken to the hospital, then to the station. In excruciating pain the entire time. Told my rights and put into an overnight cell at the station. Call my wife. Explain I've made a total fool of myself. Get my ear rung out by my freaked out wife. Have a sleepless night. Get released and given a court date.
Go Home, have a shower, and call my lawyer.
Yea, some days are just not your day.
Like today.
Woke up late, had a freezing cold shower, fell down the stairs and bumped my shin, had a horrible breakfast and then couldn't find my toothbrush. Couldn't start the car because the lights had been left on. Had to get a jump start from my grumpy neighbor who I hate. Got stuck in traffic so I was late for work. Got yelled at by my boss for being late. Went to get a coffee but it was cold--drank some anyway. Then the computer wouldn't start. Crawled under the desk to see what was wrong and spilled cold coffee on my back. Jumped in surprise and hit my head on the bottom of my desk which knocked the computer monitor onto the floor. Now the screen's cracked. Got up to go to the washroom and yell. Shirt got caught on the edge of my cubicle and the whole thing fell over. I just walked away. Got in the washroom and realized I forgot to shave. Yelled. Went back to my cubicle and everyone in the office was standing around it. Picked up my cubicle and got on the phone to order a new computer. Put on hold--for five hours. Tried to explain to my boss why I got nothing done today. Got yelled at again. Went to go home and my tire was flat. Called a tow truck. Waited two hours. Got a two-hundred dollar bill for having my tire filled with air. Got stuck in traffic on the way home. Got pulled over by a police officer...
Great. Just what I need on a day like today. A ticket. I hate the awkward spanse of time between the cop pulling you over and then actually getting out of the car to come and talk to you. Seriously, what do they do in there? Must be writing down my license plate number or something, I wasn't even speeding! Did I make an illegal lane change? This guy better give me a warning because I don't even know that I did anything wrong. He must be a new cop, just started a while ago. Stupid beginners. I don't need a ticket right now, I have bills to pay! Looks like another month without my new boat. What an asshole, this cop is taking away my chance to get a boat! I bet he knows it! Whatever, here he comes.
Roll down my window.
"What seems to be the problem officer?" he has a huge grin on his face. Of course he does, he must be having a great day. Asshole.
"Well my friend I was just--oh, my apologies sir."
"I'm sorry?" he is a beginner; friggin idiot...
"No I just thought you were someone else. You have the exact some car as a friend of mine and I wanted to give him a little scare as a joke seeing as its been real slow today. You can be on your way sir, sorry about the confusion." he starts walking back to his car.
"What?" take of my seatbelt: this is the last straw.
"It was all a joke sir you did nothing wrong you be on your wa--okay sir I need you to step back into your car." yea, now he's having a slow day.
"I have had the worst day today, and you expect me to take something like this as okay? I'm stressin out because I can't afford a ticket right now, and you tell me it's a joke?" walking towards the cop, startin to get real sarcastic. Turns out he's the one I'm going to lose it on: "It's people like you, 'officer' who make me so mad." cop pulls out his gun.
I'm standing on the side of a freeway with a gun being pointed at me.
Keep walking towards the cop.
"Sir I need you to calm down and get back into your car."
"You my friend, are a complete asshole."
Jump at the cop, get shot in the leg. Fall over and land near his feet. Cop starts hand-cuffing me, punch him in the face. Get pepper sprayed. Taken to the hospital, then to the station. In excruciating pain the entire time. Told my rights and put into an overnight cell at the station. Call my wife. Explain I've made a total fool of myself. Get my ear rung out by my freaked out wife. Have a sleepless night. Get released and given a court date.
Go Home, have a shower, and call my lawyer.
Yea, some days are just not your day.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Press Play
"You know, they say weird things only happen to weird people, kinda the same way that karma works.
But I've never considered myself weird, and no one ever told me I was weird, but weird crap happens to me all the time.
Like last week, I was just walking to my car in the parking lot--just a regular day after work--when some weirdo-kinda-bum-kinda-hobo person ran up to me and handed me a really old VCR--you know, like before there was a rewind button, just put in the tape and play.
So anyways this really weird guy hands me this VCR in a really panicky way: 'I need you to hold on to this for me.' he was panting really heavy, like he'd been running for a while or somethin'.
'Don't watch the tape in it,' he says, 'just hide it, and keep it safe.'
I thought it was some sort of joke, but I saw no harm in holding on to it for him. I threw it in the trunk of my car and forgot about it.
Three days later the hobo shows up at my door, only this time he's got his hair slicked back real nice and wearin' a fancy suit and tie. Had a nice pair of sunglasses on too, and one of those fancy ear walkie-talkies that they got in spy movies. I didn't hardly recognize the guy. He asks me how the VCR is and I tell him I don't know cuz its been sitting locked in my trunk for three plus days.
Suddenly this guy starts gettin real mad, like something I've never seen before. Mother F***er strangles me and tells me to unlock the trunk for him. I pop the trunk and he walks over there so fast I'm surprised he didn't trip or somethin.
He dug around the trunk a bit and threw my stuff all over the ground, made a real mess to be honest. Then he finds the VCR and checks to see if the tape's still there.
It's there--of course it is, would it go anywhere if it was locked in my trunk?
He nods to me, hops in a BMW parked across the street and drives away, leaving a mess and a crappy old VCR/tape strewn across my trunk and driveway.
A few days go by and nothing happens. Then I get a phone call yesterday afternoon from the guy--don't even wanna know how he got my number--tellin me to look on the bottom of the VCR. He says there's a piece of black tape there that blends in with the things color. Tells me to peel it off and follow the instructions written on the bottom--the ones in white.
So I look for the VCR and find it after about ten minutes. Takes longer to find the damned piece of tape
than it did the VCR. Mister hobo wasn't lying when he said it blends in. I finally found it and peeled it off.
It was then that I knew what he meant by, 'the ones in white.' There were four different instructions on there all written in different colors like this was intended for more than one person or something.
My instructions were at the bottom of the list.
I was pretty pissed when I read them: 'press play'. Honestly, f***in hobo coulda said that on the phone. Anyway, I plugged the piece of junk into the wall and pressed play.
All of a sudden I hear this faint scratchin noise comin from the VCR. I pushed open the flap to see what it was and instead of a tape I see a f***in bomb. There's a little counter on there says seven seconds, so I book it outta my house counting down the time in my head.
6 - flyin for the hallway
5 - burst into the hallway
4 - see the door
3 - reach for the handle
2 - jiggle the handle
1 - throw open the door
0 - get thrown onto my lawn by a shockwave and everything goes black. Next thing I know I'm sittin' in here with you Mr. Talone, and that' why I don't got your money."
But I've never considered myself weird, and no one ever told me I was weird, but weird crap happens to me all the time.
Like last week, I was just walking to my car in the parking lot--just a regular day after work--when some weirdo-kinda-bum-kinda-hobo person ran up to me and handed me a really old VCR--you know, like before there was a rewind button, just put in the tape and play.
So anyways this really weird guy hands me this VCR in a really panicky way: 'I need you to hold on to this for me.' he was panting really heavy, like he'd been running for a while or somethin'.
'Don't watch the tape in it,' he says, 'just hide it, and keep it safe.'
I thought it was some sort of joke, but I saw no harm in holding on to it for him. I threw it in the trunk of my car and forgot about it.
Three days later the hobo shows up at my door, only this time he's got his hair slicked back real nice and wearin' a fancy suit and tie. Had a nice pair of sunglasses on too, and one of those fancy ear walkie-talkies that they got in spy movies. I didn't hardly recognize the guy. He asks me how the VCR is and I tell him I don't know cuz its been sitting locked in my trunk for three plus days.
Suddenly this guy starts gettin real mad, like something I've never seen before. Mother F***er strangles me and tells me to unlock the trunk for him. I pop the trunk and he walks over there so fast I'm surprised he didn't trip or somethin.
He dug around the trunk a bit and threw my stuff all over the ground, made a real mess to be honest. Then he finds the VCR and checks to see if the tape's still there.
It's there--of course it is, would it go anywhere if it was locked in my trunk?
He nods to me, hops in a BMW parked across the street and drives away, leaving a mess and a crappy old VCR/tape strewn across my trunk and driveway.
A few days go by and nothing happens. Then I get a phone call yesterday afternoon from the guy--don't even wanna know how he got my number--tellin me to look on the bottom of the VCR. He says there's a piece of black tape there that blends in with the things color. Tells me to peel it off and follow the instructions written on the bottom--the ones in white.
So I look for the VCR and find it after about ten minutes. Takes longer to find the damned piece of tape
than it did the VCR. Mister hobo wasn't lying when he said it blends in. I finally found it and peeled it off.
It was then that I knew what he meant by, 'the ones in white.' There were four different instructions on there all written in different colors like this was intended for more than one person or something.
My instructions were at the bottom of the list.
I was pretty pissed when I read them: 'press play'. Honestly, f***in hobo coulda said that on the phone. Anyway, I plugged the piece of junk into the wall and pressed play.
All of a sudden I hear this faint scratchin noise comin from the VCR. I pushed open the flap to see what it was and instead of a tape I see a f***in bomb. There's a little counter on there says seven seconds, so I book it outta my house counting down the time in my head.
6 - flyin for the hallway
5 - burst into the hallway
4 - see the door
3 - reach for the handle
2 - jiggle the handle
1 - throw open the door
0 - get thrown onto my lawn by a shockwave and everything goes black. Next thing I know I'm sittin' in here with you Mr. Talone, and that' why I don't got your money."
Friday, July 24, 2009
Life?
Sitting in my room
Looking at the door
Something feels different
Even though I've been here before
The floor is the same
The window is the same
Walls are okay
And ceiling seems normal too
But the door...
It's been shaking quite unnaturally - for the past several minutes.
There's a bit of light squeezing through the crack at the bottom of the door frame too. This would usually be expected - if my lights were off - but this luminescence outshines the singular bulb somewhere above my head.
And it's green.
A green, slimy light making its way further into the sanctity of my bedroom, accompanied by the constant rattling of that stupid shaking door.
I take a second look.
The light is slimy.
A beam of light, a ray of luminescence - is as slimy as the slop in a pig's pen on a rainy day. I can touch it, i can feel it, but I can't pick it up for the life of me. Then again, I've never been able to pick up light before. I've also never FELT light before, but that happened just now.
I'm so absorbed by this non-absorbent substance that the room simply fades away. The dull, assorted colors of my room melt, meld, and darken to a nullifying gray.
The only light is the, 'slime' oozing in front of me.
It's completely through the door now, because the door has disappeared It's just me and this slim, alone and not knowing what to do. What happens next? Who knows. We'll just have to wait and see.
Me and my pretty slime - waiting for something interesting to happen.
Looking at the door
Something feels different
Even though I've been here before
The floor is the same
The window is the same
Walls are okay
And ceiling seems normal too
But the door...
It's been shaking quite unnaturally - for the past several minutes.
There's a bit of light squeezing through the crack at the bottom of the door frame too. This would usually be expected - if my lights were off - but this luminescence outshines the singular bulb somewhere above my head.
And it's green.
A green, slimy light making its way further into the sanctity of my bedroom, accompanied by the constant rattling of that stupid shaking door.
I take a second look.
The light is slimy.
A beam of light, a ray of luminescence - is as slimy as the slop in a pig's pen on a rainy day. I can touch it, i can feel it, but I can't pick it up for the life of me. Then again, I've never been able to pick up light before. I've also never FELT light before, but that happened just now.
I'm so absorbed by this non-absorbent substance that the room simply fades away. The dull, assorted colors of my room melt, meld, and darken to a nullifying gray.
The only light is the, 'slime' oozing in front of me.
It's completely through the door now, because the door has disappeared It's just me and this slim, alone and not knowing what to do. What happens next? Who knows. We'll just have to wait and see.
Me and my pretty slime - waiting for something interesting to happen.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Splash
I've never been friends with someone who's dying before.
It feels weird, and very unsure, like when you're testing the temperature of water in a lake or pond to see what it's like, but you know in the back of your mind that you'll end up jumping no matter what the temperature is. It'll be really cold at first, almost shocking. But you'll get used to it, and keep swimming for a while. Still, there will always be that voice in the back of your head telling you it's still really cold, and the odd time it will win over. You'll get out, and jump right back in again to do it all over again.
I'm still testing the water, not willing to believe the cold and shocking truth: my friend is going to die.
Daren Bello is going to die. He's only 18 years old--but he's going to die.
I don't really understand how it happened; the kid was always really healthy. He's been on the town's swim team for as long as anyone can remember, and he's a damn good diver too. He had this crazy dream to go to the Olympics, which earned him the nickname, 'little Phelps'. We used to joke around about it and tease him about his big dream, even though we all knew that he could at least qualify.
Dammit. I wipe a stray, salty tear from my worried eyes as I try and focus on the road.
"Save the crying for later." I say to myself, "Can't see the road with water in your eyes."
Ten minutes later I'm at the hospital, sitting in the parking lot.
This is all so unreal.
My best friend, my confidant and companion since the day we could communicate, is leaving and never coming back.
I'm walking through the front doors of the hospital now, hands in my pockets and staring straight ahead, not really focused on anything in particular. Normally I would be taken aback by the size and beauty of a building like the several-stories-high-hospital--but not today.
I walk like a dark zombie towards the receptionist and say in a bleak, defeated voice, "Daren Bello please" the lady nods and gives me his room number, handing me a sanitary mask, gloves and shoes while doing so. They're probably the newest--and cleanest--pieces of clothing on me as I slowly make my way to Daren's room.
My heart flutters nervously as I begin to realise that this may be the last time I ever see my dear friend. What am I supposed to say? How do you say goodbye forever?
I'm preparing to jump into the water.
I could tell him I'm sorry, and start blaming things like the government and poverty, probably shouldn't do that with guards around though.
I feel a wetness on my cheek and reach up to realise that I've drenched my sanitary mask with tears. The reality of the situation is really starting to hit me: I'm in the middle of my first jump into the icy cold water, somewhere in mid-air probably. I can see Daren's room from here, and I'm hit by a sudden wave of anger and questions.
Why did we have to be born here? Why do we live in poverty? Why is there third world countries like this one? This small, stupid country of Liberia. If it wasn't for this country, Daren wouldn't have malaria, and he probably wouldn't die from it either.
Splash.
It feels weird, and very unsure, like when you're testing the temperature of water in a lake or pond to see what it's like, but you know in the back of your mind that you'll end up jumping no matter what the temperature is. It'll be really cold at first, almost shocking. But you'll get used to it, and keep swimming for a while. Still, there will always be that voice in the back of your head telling you it's still really cold, and the odd time it will win over. You'll get out, and jump right back in again to do it all over again.
I'm still testing the water, not willing to believe the cold and shocking truth: my friend is going to die.
Daren Bello is going to die. He's only 18 years old--but he's going to die.
I don't really understand how it happened; the kid was always really healthy. He's been on the town's swim team for as long as anyone can remember, and he's a damn good diver too. He had this crazy dream to go to the Olympics, which earned him the nickname, 'little Phelps'. We used to joke around about it and tease him about his big dream, even though we all knew that he could at least qualify.
Dammit. I wipe a stray, salty tear from my worried eyes as I try and focus on the road.
"Save the crying for later." I say to myself, "Can't see the road with water in your eyes."
Ten minutes later I'm at the hospital, sitting in the parking lot.
This is all so unreal.
My best friend, my confidant and companion since the day we could communicate, is leaving and never coming back.
I'm walking through the front doors of the hospital now, hands in my pockets and staring straight ahead, not really focused on anything in particular. Normally I would be taken aback by the size and beauty of a building like the several-stories-high-hospital--but not today.
I walk like a dark zombie towards the receptionist and say in a bleak, defeated voice, "Daren Bello please" the lady nods and gives me his room number, handing me a sanitary mask, gloves and shoes while doing so. They're probably the newest--and cleanest--pieces of clothing on me as I slowly make my way to Daren's room.
My heart flutters nervously as I begin to realise that this may be the last time I ever see my dear friend. What am I supposed to say? How do you say goodbye forever?
I'm preparing to jump into the water.
I could tell him I'm sorry, and start blaming things like the government and poverty, probably shouldn't do that with guards around though.
I feel a wetness on my cheek and reach up to realise that I've drenched my sanitary mask with tears. The reality of the situation is really starting to hit me: I'm in the middle of my first jump into the icy cold water, somewhere in mid-air probably. I can see Daren's room from here, and I'm hit by a sudden wave of anger and questions.
Why did we have to be born here? Why do we live in poverty? Why is there third world countries like this one? This small, stupid country of Liberia. If it wasn't for this country, Daren wouldn't have malaria, and he probably wouldn't die from it either.
Splash.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Beauty and the Disney
Once upon a time I was a perfectly happy feminine member of the royal family of some royal and perfect kingdom somewhere, living in a beautiful castle in a beautiful kingdom. I had this amazing ability to communicate and make harmony with animals--which, I might add, no one ever questioned--and my beastial friends led me to the most handsome and dreamy man in the land.
He was perfect, and ten times better looking than any other man around--literally. Seeing as I am a woman and my only ambition in life is to marry a handsome man/prince/pauper-soon-to-become-prince, I set out to marry him...despite the fact that I had never even made eye contact with him.
We met the next day by me disguising myself as a lowly peasant, and fell in love immediately.
The next DAY we were about to be married, when this really mean and evil person decided that it would be the perfect moment to hatch their evil plan to take over the kingdom. My new love was apparently an amazing swordsman, and after about ten to twenty minutes of swordplay, he triumphed with a great huzzah and boasting of his chest.
The nasty evil person was immediately sent to prison--rather than be executed realistically--but he(for women are rarely evil) will probably escape someday so that we can have a sequel and make more money despite the fact that the sequel will be twice as bad as the original.
But, for now, we'll all(me, my prince, the animals, and my aging weak father) just live happily ever after--right after I get a boob-job so that my prince will appreciate me more.
The End
He was perfect, and ten times better looking than any other man around--literally. Seeing as I am a woman and my only ambition in life is to marry a handsome man/prince/pauper-soon-to-become-prince, I set out to marry him...despite the fact that I had never even made eye contact with him.
We met the next day by me disguising myself as a lowly peasant, and fell in love immediately.
The next DAY we were about to be married, when this really mean and evil person decided that it would be the perfect moment to hatch their evil plan to take over the kingdom. My new love was apparently an amazing swordsman, and after about ten to twenty minutes of swordplay, he triumphed with a great huzzah and boasting of his chest.
The nasty evil person was immediately sent to prison--rather than be executed realistically--but he(for women are rarely evil) will probably escape someday so that we can have a sequel and make more money despite the fact that the sequel will be twice as bad as the original.
But, for now, we'll all(me, my prince, the animals, and my aging weak father) just live happily ever after--right after I get a boob-job so that my prince will appreciate me more.
The End
Monday, June 29, 2009
Solitude
Wrote this at 2 this morning...couldn't sleep cuz I had this idea...then if just kind of flowed out onto the paper :P. Enjoy.
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Humans are indeed remarkable.
Some days all we long for is companionship, to be able to love and be loved, to communicate and to be known.
Other days we're not so sure what we want, we know we want something...but what? We cannot begin to elaborate on what it is, and neither can we give the slightest hint to its description...because we simply don't know.
And on those rare days, we simply want to be alone. Away from distractions, away from enjoyments, away from friends, and away from family.
Alone.
It was on the latter of these three types of days that I found myself perched in a massive and grotesquely knotted old oak tree which looked out onto the peaceful and flowing hayfields of my grandparent's farm. I was fourteen years old, and had recently been denied the love of my first crush.
Her name was Alexia, and she was barely a year above me in age. She always hung out with the older kids, which made it harder for me to spend time with her, so I suppose I didn't know her as well as I would have liked. One thing I did know was her beauty--and what a beauty it was indeed. She had beautiful jet-black hair, which flowed across her smooth-skinned face and down to her back. Every time she glanced my way, I caught a heavenly glimpse of her stunning grey-green eyes, and her pale red lips.
I still don't understand how any of my peers could have ever disagreed with me. Some even tried to discourage me by saying things such as, "She's out of your league" or, "She's too popular dude". These phrases of course meant nothing to me at the time, but later on I would learn to take them as a challenge.
As I sat in that beautiful oak tree overlooking that beautiful field in that beautiful moment of solitude on that beautifully peaceful day, I began to tell myself that one rejection wasn't enough. Hell, five-hundred rejections wouldn't be enough to deter me: I loved this girl and I wasn't about to let her stop me from having her. I looked out into the field once more and considered the irony of my last thought.
I then considered the quiet solitude I was enjoying so much. I imagined what it would be like with Alexia there...probably not so quiet, and probably not so peaceful either. She would gab on and on about trivial matters while I rested myself in one of the many crooks of the old oak tree, watching the sunset and not having a care in the world.
So I sat and watched the sunset from the old oak in the old field owned by my old grandparents, and still do so every day of my life. Lately I am almost always joined by a special guest: a beautiful woman by the name of Jade. She is quiet, like myself, and we often sit arm in arm watching the glorious sunset, enjoying the wonderful feeling of solitude--together.
(deleted paragraph?...wasn't sure whether or not to add this part)
For as I said, humans are remarkable and do not always know what they want: solitude or companionship. On these most troublesome of days we tend to make the best of both worlds, and simply combine the two. Slightly ironic, wouldn't you think?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Humans are indeed remarkable.
Some days all we long for is companionship, to be able to love and be loved, to communicate and to be known.
Other days we're not so sure what we want, we know we want something...but what? We cannot begin to elaborate on what it is, and neither can we give the slightest hint to its description...because we simply don't know.
And on those rare days, we simply want to be alone. Away from distractions, away from enjoyments, away from friends, and away from family.
Alone.
It was on the latter of these three types of days that I found myself perched in a massive and grotesquely knotted old oak tree which looked out onto the peaceful and flowing hayfields of my grandparent's farm. I was fourteen years old, and had recently been denied the love of my first crush.
Her name was Alexia, and she was barely a year above me in age. She always hung out with the older kids, which made it harder for me to spend time with her, so I suppose I didn't know her as well as I would have liked. One thing I did know was her beauty--and what a beauty it was indeed. She had beautiful jet-black hair, which flowed across her smooth-skinned face and down to her back. Every time she glanced my way, I caught a heavenly glimpse of her stunning grey-green eyes, and her pale red lips.
I still don't understand how any of my peers could have ever disagreed with me. Some even tried to discourage me by saying things such as, "She's out of your league" or, "She's too popular dude". These phrases of course meant nothing to me at the time, but later on I would learn to take them as a challenge.
As I sat in that beautiful oak tree overlooking that beautiful field in that beautiful moment of solitude on that beautifully peaceful day, I began to tell myself that one rejection wasn't enough. Hell, five-hundred rejections wouldn't be enough to deter me: I loved this girl and I wasn't about to let her stop me from having her. I looked out into the field once more and considered the irony of my last thought.
I then considered the quiet solitude I was enjoying so much. I imagined what it would be like with Alexia there...probably not so quiet, and probably not so peaceful either. She would gab on and on about trivial matters while I rested myself in one of the many crooks of the old oak tree, watching the sunset and not having a care in the world.
So I sat and watched the sunset from the old oak in the old field owned by my old grandparents, and still do so every day of my life. Lately I am almost always joined by a special guest: a beautiful woman by the name of Jade. She is quiet, like myself, and we often sit arm in arm watching the glorious sunset, enjoying the wonderful feeling of solitude--together.
(deleted paragraph?...wasn't sure whether or not to add this part)
For as I said, humans are remarkable and do not always know what they want: solitude or companionship. On these most troublesome of days we tend to make the best of both worlds, and simply combine the two. Slightly ironic, wouldn't you think?
Friday, May 22, 2009
Half hour
A half hour gone. A half hour away. A half hour leaving me to sit some more. A half hour of thinking. A half hour of contemplating. A half hour of wondering and wishing. A half hour of listening. A half hour of talking. A half hour of going insane.
I sit and I think and I wonder and I contemplate. I sit up and slouch down and even turn around. I moan, I groan, I rack my brain. So many questions but only one answer, am I really going insane?
I thought I knew the answer, thought I knew it well. I figured this would be a breeze, but it turned out to be a near living hell. This desk is so bland and boring. Nothing but a sheet of paper and a raw chewed up pencil. Wait a minute, somethings missing! O yea, the eraser fell on the floor last time I moved.
Should I pick it up? Nah, what's there to erase? I haven't written much. A few scribbles here and there, nothing I need to touch.
I glance around the eerily quiet room with a tired sigh. A voice says, 'Shut up!' and I do my best to comply.
As turn to face the horrible paper again my eyes catch the old grandfather clock. Another half hour before the horrible song.
I'm tired and bored; what am I doing this for? I stand up to walk away. It's not that simple.
'What are you doing?'
'I'll be on my way.'
'Sit down! I think you'll find it best to stay.'
The voice is commanding and intimidating some how.
So I sit. And continue to look around.
It's all one color, this grotesque little room. A stark white, with nothing on the walls or ceiling. Look up, look down, look all around, nothing but the color of snow.
The few others in the room slowly begin to move. They stand and slump towards a certain corner of the ugly space. One, two, three, and four...there aren't anymore.
Save for me; the fifth; the odd one out. Left sitting here to pout.
'Can I leave?'
'Oh no. Stay till your finished, then it will be time to go.'
What an odd person.
I finally see them now, the source of the voice. With frizzled Grey hair and a large poofy mustache. Their eyebrows are really thick too...kind of scary...like someone who would go boo.
They're staring at me intently. Why not? I'm the only one in the room.
What do they want me to do? Oh right, the paper, woohoo.
I glance back at the clock, about a quarter to. Fifteen more minutes, before the awful thing goes coo.
You'd almost think I'm crazy, not knowing where I am, but I start to wonder how I got here, and where my story began. Why am I afraid of the clock, or this creepy old man? I stand up once again.
'SIT DOWN!'
Oh right, that's why.
But how'd this start? Where did my story begin? Furthermore, how did it lead here, to this place where I can't win?
I look back at the paper, covered in scribbles, but just that, no letters. Or maybe they are, I just am unable to read.
My heart starts to beat; what happened to me? Am I really going crazy, or perhaps just insane?
I try to make out the words, but I try in vain: I'm stuck in this room, unable to leave. I can't finish the paper, because I can't read. Maybe I can write, but turns out I can't even draw.
The man just keeps staring, boring through me like a drill. I'm a piece of dumb wood, stuck in wood hell. I look around once more, at the clock I so dread. One more minute, and then I'll be dead.
How do I know? What makes me so sure? If I know not how I came here, how do I know where I go?
Something is telling me. It's that man in the corner. He must be controlling me, having some kind of order.
I stand up again. This time with valor. That man wants to kill me, and he's been waiting half an hour.
But as I get up, he makes a move too. The clock has now struck, and the crowd is yelling boo.
There's a crowd? Come from where?
'No where really, they're suddenly...just there.' says the man
'How do you know?'
'I just do' he replies
'Fair enough I suppose.'
We're both standing now, with weapons in hand. I've a sharp pencil, and he a hot brand.
He won't try to kill me, he'll make me his own. Some kind of slave I guess, depressed and alone. I lunge and he moves, swinging at me with a fist full of rage.
He seemed so calm a moment ago, but now a new person all his own.
I trip and I fall, but I don't hit the ground. I just keep going through nothing. No sights, and no sound.
It's all white you see, the walls, and the floor, and the ceiling above me.
But were they ever even there? Who knows? I don't care.
I look back up to see the man there, far away with his desk and his chair.
He's still holding his iron, looking down upon me. What world am I in, that fills me with such glee?
I have not a care as I continue to float--for that's what it is. There is no air rushing past me and no ground to hit. I'll stay here forever I suppose, alone but free. Better than being held in captivity.
How did I know he would take me a slave? Perhaps he was helping me, or trying to be brave.
I'll never know though, because he is long gone. I'll just float here forever, looking on and on.
Someday I may meet another, one as fortunate as me. To have left the cruel world and come soaring through the breeze.
But until then I'll just float, forever and ever, here in my happy boat.
***
'Jimmy? Jimmy! WAKE UP JIMMY! That's better. Have you finished your test yet? No? What were you doing all this time? Day dreaming? You'll just have to finish it tomorrow then. We only have a half hour class though so you'll have to be quick. See you tomorrow. What do I think of slavery? It's wrong and it's illegal, now be on your way. No I don't have a branding iron! What's wrong with you child? Are you going insane?'
'I think I am.'
I sit and I think and I wonder and I contemplate. I sit up and slouch down and even turn around. I moan, I groan, I rack my brain. So many questions but only one answer, am I really going insane?
I thought I knew the answer, thought I knew it well. I figured this would be a breeze, but it turned out to be a near living hell. This desk is so bland and boring. Nothing but a sheet of paper and a raw chewed up pencil. Wait a minute, somethings missing! O yea, the eraser fell on the floor last time I moved.
Should I pick it up? Nah, what's there to erase? I haven't written much. A few scribbles here and there, nothing I need to touch.
I glance around the eerily quiet room with a tired sigh. A voice says, 'Shut up!' and I do my best to comply.
As turn to face the horrible paper again my eyes catch the old grandfather clock. Another half hour before the horrible song.
I'm tired and bored; what am I doing this for? I stand up to walk away. It's not that simple.
'What are you doing?'
'I'll be on my way.'
'Sit down! I think you'll find it best to stay.'
The voice is commanding and intimidating some how.
So I sit. And continue to look around.
It's all one color, this grotesque little room. A stark white, with nothing on the walls or ceiling. Look up, look down, look all around, nothing but the color of snow.
The few others in the room slowly begin to move. They stand and slump towards a certain corner of the ugly space. One, two, three, and four...there aren't anymore.
Save for me; the fifth; the odd one out. Left sitting here to pout.
'Can I leave?'
'Oh no. Stay till your finished, then it will be time to go.'
What an odd person.
I finally see them now, the source of the voice. With frizzled Grey hair and a large poofy mustache. Their eyebrows are really thick too...kind of scary...like someone who would go boo.
They're staring at me intently. Why not? I'm the only one in the room.
What do they want me to do? Oh right, the paper, woohoo.
I glance back at the clock, about a quarter to. Fifteen more minutes, before the awful thing goes coo.
You'd almost think I'm crazy, not knowing where I am, but I start to wonder how I got here, and where my story began. Why am I afraid of the clock, or this creepy old man? I stand up once again.
'SIT DOWN!'
Oh right, that's why.
But how'd this start? Where did my story begin? Furthermore, how did it lead here, to this place where I can't win?
I look back at the paper, covered in scribbles, but just that, no letters. Or maybe they are, I just am unable to read.
My heart starts to beat; what happened to me? Am I really going crazy, or perhaps just insane?
I try to make out the words, but I try in vain: I'm stuck in this room, unable to leave. I can't finish the paper, because I can't read. Maybe I can write, but turns out I can't even draw.
The man just keeps staring, boring through me like a drill. I'm a piece of dumb wood, stuck in wood hell. I look around once more, at the clock I so dread. One more minute, and then I'll be dead.
How do I know? What makes me so sure? If I know not how I came here, how do I know where I go?
Something is telling me. It's that man in the corner. He must be controlling me, having some kind of order.
I stand up again. This time with valor. That man wants to kill me, and he's been waiting half an hour.
But as I get up, he makes a move too. The clock has now struck, and the crowd is yelling boo.
There's a crowd? Come from where?
'No where really, they're suddenly...just there.' says the man
'How do you know?'
'I just do' he replies
'Fair enough I suppose.'
We're both standing now, with weapons in hand. I've a sharp pencil, and he a hot brand.
He won't try to kill me, he'll make me his own. Some kind of slave I guess, depressed and alone. I lunge and he moves, swinging at me with a fist full of rage.
He seemed so calm a moment ago, but now a new person all his own.
I trip and I fall, but I don't hit the ground. I just keep going through nothing. No sights, and no sound.
It's all white you see, the walls, and the floor, and the ceiling above me.
But were they ever even there? Who knows? I don't care.
I look back up to see the man there, far away with his desk and his chair.
He's still holding his iron, looking down upon me. What world am I in, that fills me with such glee?
I have not a care as I continue to float--for that's what it is. There is no air rushing past me and no ground to hit. I'll stay here forever I suppose, alone but free. Better than being held in captivity.
How did I know he would take me a slave? Perhaps he was helping me, or trying to be brave.
I'll never know though, because he is long gone. I'll just float here forever, looking on and on.
Someday I may meet another, one as fortunate as me. To have left the cruel world and come soaring through the breeze.
But until then I'll just float, forever and ever, here in my happy boat.
***
'Jimmy? Jimmy! WAKE UP JIMMY! That's better. Have you finished your test yet? No? What were you doing all this time? Day dreaming? You'll just have to finish it tomorrow then. We only have a half hour class though so you'll have to be quick. See you tomorrow. What do I think of slavery? It's wrong and it's illegal, now be on your way. No I don't have a branding iron! What's wrong with you child? Are you going insane?'
'I think I am.'
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
So much little time
Drip, Drip, Drip. The old tap continues to cry out for attention from the other side of the room. I’ve had the plumber in several times to fix it. Apparently I should have hired a different plumber.
Drip, Drip, Drip. Jesus that’s annoying. Suppose I’ll call the plumber again…maybe a different one this time.
Drop, Drip, Drip. What’s that? A different noise? Wow. I must be really bored if I can tell the difference between the various noises drops of water make.
Drip, Drop, Drip, Drip. Almost sounds like morse code. As if the tap is trying to talk to me. I laugh. What a ridiculous thought.
Drop, Drop, Drop…Drip. Seriously? I really need to call the plumber. The phone’s all the way over at the counter though. God I’m lazy.
Drop, Drop, Drop…Drop. I wonder if that actually says anything in morse code? There might be a translator online somewhere. The computer’s even farther than the phone. Who cares? This is actually important.
Drop, Drop…Drip, Drip. Let’s see…google…morse code…translator. Here it is. Now how do I substitute dripping water for an electronic noise? This is stupid. I’m just paranoid.
Drip, Drip…Drop,Drip. I guess it’s still worth a try. I’ll just put all the drops of water in as dots, and any pauses as, ‘stops’. There.
Drip, Drip, Drip…Drop. Nothing. I knew it. But maybe if I make drips be dots and drops be dashes. It probably won’t be anything though. Still…
Drop, Drop…Drip, Drop. Hello John. Must just be coincidence. My name isn’t John; it’s James. I’ll try once more and then I’ll know for sure it’s nothing.
Drip…Drip, Drop, Drip. Sorry? Why would the tap apologize? It didn’t do anything to me. This is crazy.
Drip, Drop, Drip…Drop. Sorry what? Finish your sentence you stupid piece of metal! Listen to me! I’m talking to a tap!
Drop, Drop, Drop……Drip. Sorry James. How do you know my name? That’s right. I said it earlier. No I didn’t. It was in my head. Just like everything else right now. This is all just happening in my head.
Drop, Drip…Drop, Drop, Drop. No. No what? Do you ever finish you sentences? Maybe I’ll fix this thing myself.
Drip, Drip…Drop. No it. That’s not a complete sentence! Of course it’s not…the sink isn’t actually talking, it’s just coincidence.
Drip, Drip, Drip……Drop, Drip. No it’s not. What’s not? Did I even ask you a question in the first place? Where is my wrench?
Drop, Drip, Drip…Drip, Drop, Drip. Drawer. What about the drawer? I have several which one are you talking about?
Drip, Drop…Drip, Drop, Drop. I heard you the first time! You want me to look through my drawers? Fine! You see? I’m searching my drawers! Are you happy?
Drip…Drip, Drop, Drip. Stop saying that! God what do you want me to find?
Oh. A wrench.
Yes, a wrench. Use it. Fix me. This leak is driving me crazy.
It’s driving YOU crazy? I’ve been on a computer translating your stupid little leaks for the past twenty minutes because I thought you were talking to me in morse code.
Yea, I guess that’s pretty crazy.
I know.
Since when do sinks talk right?
Yea…hey!
What?
STOP IT! I am crazy! Sinks don’t talk! You’re a figment of my imagination! Leave me alone!
How can I be a figment of your imagination? I’ve been here longer than you. You use me every day to clean your dishes and such.
But I don’t carry on conversations with you!
Well now you do.
No, no, no, stop it! Go away PLEASE!
Okay.
What? Hello? Where did you go? So you’re gone just like that? Well jeez…this is boring.
Drop, Drop, Drip…Drop, Drop, Drop…Drop, Drop, Drop…Drop, Drip, Drip…Drop, Drip, Drip, Drip…Drop, Drip, Drop, Drop…Drip.
Yea, see you later.
Drip, Drip, Drip. Jesus that’s annoying. Suppose I’ll call the plumber again…maybe a different one this time.
Drop, Drip, Drip. What’s that? A different noise? Wow. I must be really bored if I can tell the difference between the various noises drops of water make.
Drip, Drop, Drip, Drip. Almost sounds like morse code. As if the tap is trying to talk to me. I laugh. What a ridiculous thought.
Drop, Drop, Drop…Drip. Seriously? I really need to call the plumber. The phone’s all the way over at the counter though. God I’m lazy.
Drop, Drop, Drop…Drop. I wonder if that actually says anything in morse code? There might be a translator online somewhere. The computer’s even farther than the phone. Who cares? This is actually important.
Drop, Drop…Drip, Drip. Let’s see…google…morse code…translator. Here it is. Now how do I substitute dripping water for an electronic noise? This is stupid. I’m just paranoid.
Drip, Drip…Drop,Drip. I guess it’s still worth a try. I’ll just put all the drops of water in as dots, and any pauses as, ‘stops’. There.
Drip, Drip, Drip…Drop. Nothing. I knew it. But maybe if I make drips be dots and drops be dashes. It probably won’t be anything though. Still…
Drop, Drop…Drip, Drop. Hello John. Must just be coincidence. My name isn’t John; it’s James. I’ll try once more and then I’ll know for sure it’s nothing.
Drip…Drip, Drop, Drip. Sorry? Why would the tap apologize? It didn’t do anything to me. This is crazy.
Drip, Drop, Drip…Drop. Sorry what? Finish your sentence you stupid piece of metal! Listen to me! I’m talking to a tap!
Drop, Drop, Drop……Drip. Sorry James. How do you know my name? That’s right. I said it earlier. No I didn’t. It was in my head. Just like everything else right now. This is all just happening in my head.
Drop, Drip…Drop, Drop, Drop. No. No what? Do you ever finish you sentences? Maybe I’ll fix this thing myself.
Drip, Drip…Drop. No it. That’s not a complete sentence! Of course it’s not…the sink isn’t actually talking, it’s just coincidence.
Drip, Drip, Drip……Drop, Drip. No it’s not. What’s not? Did I even ask you a question in the first place? Where is my wrench?
Drop, Drip, Drip…Drip, Drop, Drip. Drawer. What about the drawer? I have several which one are you talking about?
Drip, Drop…Drip, Drop, Drop. I heard you the first time! You want me to look through my drawers? Fine! You see? I’m searching my drawers! Are you happy?
Drip…Drip, Drop, Drip. Stop saying that! God what do you want me to find?
Oh. A wrench.
Yes, a wrench. Use it. Fix me. This leak is driving me crazy.
It’s driving YOU crazy? I’ve been on a computer translating your stupid little leaks for the past twenty minutes because I thought you were talking to me in morse code.
Yea, I guess that’s pretty crazy.
I know.
Since when do sinks talk right?
Yea…hey!
What?
STOP IT! I am crazy! Sinks don’t talk! You’re a figment of my imagination! Leave me alone!
How can I be a figment of your imagination? I’ve been here longer than you. You use me every day to clean your dishes and such.
But I don’t carry on conversations with you!
Well now you do.
No, no, no, stop it! Go away PLEASE!
Okay.
What? Hello? Where did you go? So you’re gone just like that? Well jeez…this is boring.
Drop, Drop, Drip…Drop, Drop, Drop…Drop, Drop, Drop…Drop, Drip, Drip…Drop, Drip, Drip, Drip…Drop, Drip, Drop, Drop…Drip.
Yea, see you later.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
The Porcelain Doll
They first met in a grocery store.
He was buying onions, she was buying asparagus. He first noticed her when she knocked a whole row of asparagus on the floor. He chucked and went to help her clean them up. His pant leg caught on the shelf of onions, and he found himself with a similar dilemma to that of the woman across the isle.
She let out a muffled giggle, and he gave a sheepish smile.
The vegetables rolled across the floor and scrambled together. They tried to carefully sort the onion from the greens, but ended up grabbing armfuls of both and hastily trying to shove them back on their respectable shelves before someone noticed.
They failed.
First it was a young teenage employee of the run-down grocery store. He thought about telling the manager, but decided he was too lazy.
Next it was an old lady who lived down the street. She scolded the young man and woman but forgot about the event several minutes later.
After that a dedicated employee who had been working at the store for nearly 20 years witnessed the chaos in section 1C, isle 13.4. She stormed towards the now-laughing couple and promptly informed them that they would now have to purchase every damaged item, and were never allowed in the facility again.
"What am I going to do with fifty plus onions?" he asked
"What am I going to do with so much asparagus?" she replied
They glanced back at the several employees pushing a number of full grocery carts across the parking lot in their direction.
"Let's have a feast." He said as he watched the employees slowly make their way towards them.
"Excuse me?"
"We'll cook onions and asparagus in every way conceivable, and then some."
"Um....okay....but I'm going to need you address and phone number so we can arrange a date for this, 'feast'".
The meal was set for a Tuesday night at four o' clock PM. She arrived exactly eight minutes late, and they began cooking immediately.
They deep-fried, sauteed, marinated, baked, seasoned, grilled, fried, boiled, and steamed for several hours, and at last with great satisfaction placed the last onion into a boiling pot of water.
"Now," he said, "we get to eat it all."
She laughed.
They kept in touch for the next year and quickly became close friends. On a friday of the next year they went to a local baseball game together. After several minutes of laughing and talking while they absent-mindedly watched the game he asked if this counted as a date.
She said yes.
Most would call them an odd couple: He was an artist and she was a businesswoman. He had a condo and she lived in an apartment building. He had a sports cards collection and she fancied porcelain and china dolls. She drove a brand new sports car and he drove what some would call a piece of junk while others would say it was an antique. She was energetic and active, he was down to earth and somewhat active.
Nonetheless, they fell in love and on their first, 'official' date he made her a porcelain doll. It wore a beautiful smile on its face and was wearing a lovely satin red dress. In its hands was placed a slab of porcelain with the phrase, 'love never fails' inscribed upon it.
She loved it.
They continued to see each other for almost another year, spending almost every moment they could together. She supported his artistry, and convinced the company she worked for to invest in his work.
He made her sculptures and paintings, and dedicated his car to her after he transformed it into an impression of the goddess of love: Aphrodite. They were happy together, and he came up with a grand scheme to ask her to marry him.
He planned a trip to Paris with money that he had been saving since before he met her. They were going to climb the Eiffel tower, and he would make sure it was timed so that when they reached the top the sun would be setting. Then he would ask her.
And then she left him.
They were at her apartment, arguing about something. It was late. She was angry at him, and he didn't know why. She told him to leave and come back in the morning so she could sort out her thoughts.
He went home and tried to sleep, but couldn't get his mind off of the argument. He was confused.
"What did I do?" kept running through his head.
He left the next morning in a hurry, and didn't think twice about eating breakfast.
When he arrived at her apartment, she was hesitant to let him in. They sat in silence for nearly half an hour, when he finally asked her what was wrong.
She told him she needed to move on, and that she couldn't see a future for them. She said she was sorry, and that it was fun while it lasted.
He said nothing, and stormed out the door. He slammed the thing shut so hard that several of her dolls fell off their shelves and shattered on the floor. She burst into tears as she began cleaning up the shards: The first doll he had ever made for her was one that had fallen. It was barely recognizable, save for the porcelain slab containing the phrase, "Love never fails". It was almost completely intact but for one chip which quite resembled a messy pile of asparagus and onions.
The elevator seemed to take forever in reaching the main floor. The satisfying, 'ding' finally came and the doors slid open. He walked quickly through the main lobby, his eyes misty with tears. He snaked through a small crowd of people and through the front doors of the fancy apartment building. He didn't bother to look before crossing the street: it wasn't usually busy. He didn't even hear the blaring horn of the oncoming bus, and barely felt the impact as he was thrown into the air by the fast moving vehicle. He felt cool air rushing through his hair, and opened his eyes one last time to see the ground moving towards him at an alarming rate.
Damn.
He was buying onions, she was buying asparagus. He first noticed her when she knocked a whole row of asparagus on the floor. He chucked and went to help her clean them up. His pant leg caught on the shelf of onions, and he found himself with a similar dilemma to that of the woman across the isle.
She let out a muffled giggle, and he gave a sheepish smile.
The vegetables rolled across the floor and scrambled together. They tried to carefully sort the onion from the greens, but ended up grabbing armfuls of both and hastily trying to shove them back on their respectable shelves before someone noticed.
They failed.
First it was a young teenage employee of the run-down grocery store. He thought about telling the manager, but decided he was too lazy.
Next it was an old lady who lived down the street. She scolded the young man and woman but forgot about the event several minutes later.
After that a dedicated employee who had been working at the store for nearly 20 years witnessed the chaos in section 1C, isle 13.4. She stormed towards the now-laughing couple and promptly informed them that they would now have to purchase every damaged item, and were never allowed in the facility again.
"What am I going to do with fifty plus onions?" he asked
"What am I going to do with so much asparagus?" she replied
They glanced back at the several employees pushing a number of full grocery carts across the parking lot in their direction.
"Let's have a feast." He said as he watched the employees slowly make their way towards them.
"Excuse me?"
"We'll cook onions and asparagus in every way conceivable, and then some."
"Um....okay....but I'm going to need you address and phone number so we can arrange a date for this, 'feast'".
The meal was set for a Tuesday night at four o' clock PM. She arrived exactly eight minutes late, and they began cooking immediately.
They deep-fried, sauteed, marinated, baked, seasoned, grilled, fried, boiled, and steamed for several hours, and at last with great satisfaction placed the last onion into a boiling pot of water.
"Now," he said, "we get to eat it all."
She laughed.
They kept in touch for the next year and quickly became close friends. On a friday of the next year they went to a local baseball game together. After several minutes of laughing and talking while they absent-mindedly watched the game he asked if this counted as a date.
She said yes.
Most would call them an odd couple: He was an artist and she was a businesswoman. He had a condo and she lived in an apartment building. He had a sports cards collection and she fancied porcelain and china dolls. She drove a brand new sports car and he drove what some would call a piece of junk while others would say it was an antique. She was energetic and active, he was down to earth and somewhat active.
Nonetheless, they fell in love and on their first, 'official' date he made her a porcelain doll. It wore a beautiful smile on its face and was wearing a lovely satin red dress. In its hands was placed a slab of porcelain with the phrase, 'love never fails' inscribed upon it.
She loved it.
They continued to see each other for almost another year, spending almost every moment they could together. She supported his artistry, and convinced the company she worked for to invest in his work.
He made her sculptures and paintings, and dedicated his car to her after he transformed it into an impression of the goddess of love: Aphrodite. They were happy together, and he came up with a grand scheme to ask her to marry him.
He planned a trip to Paris with money that he had been saving since before he met her. They were going to climb the Eiffel tower, and he would make sure it was timed so that when they reached the top the sun would be setting. Then he would ask her.
And then she left him.
They were at her apartment, arguing about something. It was late. She was angry at him, and he didn't know why. She told him to leave and come back in the morning so she could sort out her thoughts.
He went home and tried to sleep, but couldn't get his mind off of the argument. He was confused.
"What did I do?" kept running through his head.
He left the next morning in a hurry, and didn't think twice about eating breakfast.
When he arrived at her apartment, she was hesitant to let him in. They sat in silence for nearly half an hour, when he finally asked her what was wrong.
She told him she needed to move on, and that she couldn't see a future for them. She said she was sorry, and that it was fun while it lasted.
He said nothing, and stormed out the door. He slammed the thing shut so hard that several of her dolls fell off their shelves and shattered on the floor. She burst into tears as she began cleaning up the shards: The first doll he had ever made for her was one that had fallen. It was barely recognizable, save for the porcelain slab containing the phrase, "Love never fails". It was almost completely intact but for one chip which quite resembled a messy pile of asparagus and onions.
The elevator seemed to take forever in reaching the main floor. The satisfying, 'ding' finally came and the doors slid open. He walked quickly through the main lobby, his eyes misty with tears. He snaked through a small crowd of people and through the front doors of the fancy apartment building. He didn't bother to look before crossing the street: it wasn't usually busy. He didn't even hear the blaring horn of the oncoming bus, and barely felt the impact as he was thrown into the air by the fast moving vehicle. He felt cool air rushing through his hair, and opened his eyes one last time to see the ground moving towards him at an alarming rate.
Damn.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
First Impressions
Dedicated to Mark Butler
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A first impression is a horrible thing.
It is almost always wrong, and can often cause one to miss out on some of the greatest experiences of their life.
Kind of like that new guy on the bus. He moved into your small town from Toronto halfway through the semester because his parents were helping him quit the numerous drugs he was on. For the first few days he's on the bus all he does is talk about how different small town life is than in the city. He seems like a typical inner city drugee: spaced out, weird, thinks too much about life, etc. He always wears the same thing: black jeans, a plaid jacket, and a toque...even in the middle of summer. He's seventeen and he doesn't even have is G1 license. Your first impression is not a good one.
During his ranting about the city, he tells stories about all these different undergournd metal bands he used to play guitar for. One of them got kinda big. They even did the circuit tour of Toronto. They were thinking about trying to sign for a record deal, but then the drummer--a girl--quit because she broke up with the lead singer. Through casual talking, you tell him you play the drums. He asks if you want to jam.
The panic alarms begin to sound in your head: 'This guy is weird and kind of a loser, I don't want him coming to my house.' you make something up: "Can't man; family thing tonight." he buys it.
A few das later, he asks again. Suddenly you have a test to study for. Another time it's your only night to relax that week.
It's amazing what kind of excuses one can come up with on the spot.
Eventually you run out of ideas and a date to jam is set. He will arrive at seven on Tuesday, and you have to introduce him to your parents. What will they think of you if this is supposed to be one of your friends?
Seven o' clock Tuesday rolls around and the guy shows up ten minutes late. You've warned your parents about his weirdness so that they don't think any less of you.
After a quick hello you head to the basement for what turns out to be an amazing jam. If this guy has any talent it's guitar. He picks and sweeps and strums so fast and so well that there is almost no need for you to do anything.
More jams follow, and it becomes a weekly thing. This guy isn't completely as bad as he seemed the first time you met him. Still, the first impression stays: he does still spend lunch at the smoker's pit with the, 'tough', dirty, and poor crowd. And he does still wear the same clothes all the time.
A year passes, and not much changes. However it does seem that he always has his, 'meaning of life' chats with you whenever you need it most. The other night you had a three hour phone conversation about God. The day before he talked about how much drugs had screwed him over in life. It changed your mind about the party.
Today he told you he planned on going shopping over the weekend because he's absolutely sick of wearing the same thing every day. He's also getting out of the, 'star program' and being reinserted into the academic learning system. On top of all that, he quit everything, including smoking and drinking, for good. Finally, after three years.
The Monday after said weekend this new kid gets on the bus. He's wearing a brand new purple and white ecko sweater with snazzy blue jeans and a bright white toque. It appears he just got his haircut. He laughs at your open mouth stare: "I told you I was changing man." He says as he sits in his usual seat--across from you, "I'm just sick of living this stupid, no-brainer crap life. I need to do something with myself."
More time goes by.
Today you had a semi-serious argument with your girlfriend at school. It ended on a bad note, and millions of angry thoughts are racing through your head as you sit quietly on the bus ride home.
One of the drugees who the Toronto kid used to hang out with is sitting with him now, and they appear to be having a heated discussion. The drugee's stop comes first, and when he gets off the Toronto kid comes and sits with you.
"What was that all about?" you ask
"He's mad because I quit his band."
"Why'd you quit?"
"I told you man, I'm changing: starting over, gettin' a clean slate and all that jazz. Everyone in that band leads the lifestyle I just left. I can't hang out with them anymore. It's just not who I am."
"Oh."
"Yeah, and we were also talking about our opinions of life."
You roll your eyes: of course that's what they were talking about: "He seems to think that the only way to be happy in life is if you depend on no one and are the strongest. Basically survival of the fittest."
Here we go again, a lecture about life. You look out the window to see how much further your stop is.
"I totally disagree though. I think that happiness in life is found through, well," he pauses for a second, trying to find words: "you love your girlfriend right? I mean you guys have been together for like 3 years or some shit like that right?" he's waiting for a reply.
"Yea...of course I love her." suddenly the angry thoughts in your head stop.
"Yea, I mean you'd take a bullet for cuz she's the reason you wake up every morning right?"
"Yea...yea she is." you're starting to realize that where to go for a date is kind of a stupid thing to argue about.
"And I mean nothing would make you more happy--literally nothing--than to wake up every morning lying next to her and look into her eyes and tell her you love her right?"
"Right." You have an apologetic phone call to make when you get home.
"And whenever she says the same thing to you, or when she gives you a kiss on the cheek or whatever man that means the world to you doesn't it? That amazing feeling of having someone you can love and hold just makes your day right?"
"Yea."
"And whenever you're with her you're happy right? Like even if you're having a bad day just seeing her lightens your mood right?"
"Definitely." What were you even mad at her for?
"Yea that's what I was trying to tell that guy man: happiness isn't about dominating and being the toughest and strongest around. Happiness is about finding that special someone who makes you feel like no one else can feel man. I honestly envy you two and I'm sure that like a whole bunch of other people in the school do to because you guys have somethin special, especially for high school man I've never seen a couple that's so happy in my life before."
"Thanks man."
"Yea no problem. you see what I'm sayin though, right?"
"Yea man I definitely see what you're gettin at."
"Ok cool. Anyway that's my rant for the day." He laughs, "Hey man you free to jam tonight? Since I don't have a band anymore we'll be able to jam more often."
"Yea man for sure, what time do you think you'll be over?"
A first impression is a horrible thing.
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A first impression is a horrible thing.
It is almost always wrong, and can often cause one to miss out on some of the greatest experiences of their life.
Kind of like that new guy on the bus. He moved into your small town from Toronto halfway through the semester because his parents were helping him quit the numerous drugs he was on. For the first few days he's on the bus all he does is talk about how different small town life is than in the city. He seems like a typical inner city drugee: spaced out, weird, thinks too much about life, etc. He always wears the same thing: black jeans, a plaid jacket, and a toque...even in the middle of summer. He's seventeen and he doesn't even have is G1 license. Your first impression is not a good one.
During his ranting about the city, he tells stories about all these different undergournd metal bands he used to play guitar for. One of them got kinda big. They even did the circuit tour of Toronto. They were thinking about trying to sign for a record deal, but then the drummer--a girl--quit because she broke up with the lead singer. Through casual talking, you tell him you play the drums. He asks if you want to jam.
The panic alarms begin to sound in your head: 'This guy is weird and kind of a loser, I don't want him coming to my house.' you make something up: "Can't man; family thing tonight." he buys it.
A few das later, he asks again. Suddenly you have a test to study for. Another time it's your only night to relax that week.
It's amazing what kind of excuses one can come up with on the spot.
Eventually you run out of ideas and a date to jam is set. He will arrive at seven on Tuesday, and you have to introduce him to your parents. What will they think of you if this is supposed to be one of your friends?
Seven o' clock Tuesday rolls around and the guy shows up ten minutes late. You've warned your parents about his weirdness so that they don't think any less of you.
After a quick hello you head to the basement for what turns out to be an amazing jam. If this guy has any talent it's guitar. He picks and sweeps and strums so fast and so well that there is almost no need for you to do anything.
More jams follow, and it becomes a weekly thing. This guy isn't completely as bad as he seemed the first time you met him. Still, the first impression stays: he does still spend lunch at the smoker's pit with the, 'tough', dirty, and poor crowd. And he does still wear the same clothes all the time.
A year passes, and not much changes. However it does seem that he always has his, 'meaning of life' chats with you whenever you need it most. The other night you had a three hour phone conversation about God. The day before he talked about how much drugs had screwed him over in life. It changed your mind about the party.
Today he told you he planned on going shopping over the weekend because he's absolutely sick of wearing the same thing every day. He's also getting out of the, 'star program' and being reinserted into the academic learning system. On top of all that, he quit everything, including smoking and drinking, for good. Finally, after three years.
The Monday after said weekend this new kid gets on the bus. He's wearing a brand new purple and white ecko sweater with snazzy blue jeans and a bright white toque. It appears he just got his haircut. He laughs at your open mouth stare: "I told you I was changing man." He says as he sits in his usual seat--across from you, "I'm just sick of living this stupid, no-brainer crap life. I need to do something with myself."
More time goes by.
Today you had a semi-serious argument with your girlfriend at school. It ended on a bad note, and millions of angry thoughts are racing through your head as you sit quietly on the bus ride home.
One of the drugees who the Toronto kid used to hang out with is sitting with him now, and they appear to be having a heated discussion. The drugee's stop comes first, and when he gets off the Toronto kid comes and sits with you.
"What was that all about?" you ask
"He's mad because I quit his band."
"Why'd you quit?"
"I told you man, I'm changing: starting over, gettin' a clean slate and all that jazz. Everyone in that band leads the lifestyle I just left. I can't hang out with them anymore. It's just not who I am."
"Oh."
"Yeah, and we were also talking about our opinions of life."
You roll your eyes: of course that's what they were talking about: "He seems to think that the only way to be happy in life is if you depend on no one and are the strongest. Basically survival of the fittest."
Here we go again, a lecture about life. You look out the window to see how much further your stop is.
"I totally disagree though. I think that happiness in life is found through, well," he pauses for a second, trying to find words: "you love your girlfriend right? I mean you guys have been together for like 3 years or some shit like that right?" he's waiting for a reply.
"Yea...of course I love her." suddenly the angry thoughts in your head stop.
"Yea, I mean you'd take a bullet for cuz she's the reason you wake up every morning right?"
"Yea...yea she is." you're starting to realize that where to go for a date is kind of a stupid thing to argue about.
"And I mean nothing would make you more happy--literally nothing--than to wake up every morning lying next to her and look into her eyes and tell her you love her right?"
"Right." You have an apologetic phone call to make when you get home.
"And whenever she says the same thing to you, or when she gives you a kiss on the cheek or whatever man that means the world to you doesn't it? That amazing feeling of having someone you can love and hold just makes your day right?"
"Yea."
"And whenever you're with her you're happy right? Like even if you're having a bad day just seeing her lightens your mood right?"
"Definitely." What were you even mad at her for?
"Yea that's what I was trying to tell that guy man: happiness isn't about dominating and being the toughest and strongest around. Happiness is about finding that special someone who makes you feel like no one else can feel man. I honestly envy you two and I'm sure that like a whole bunch of other people in the school do to because you guys have somethin special, especially for high school man I've never seen a couple that's so happy in my life before."
"Thanks man."
"Yea no problem. you see what I'm sayin though, right?"
"Yea man I definitely see what you're gettin at."
"Ok cool. Anyway that's my rant for the day." He laughs, "Hey man you free to jam tonight? Since I don't have a band anymore we'll be able to jam more often."
"Yea man for sure, what time do you think you'll be over?"
A first impression is a horrible thing.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
My Picture
This was another assignment for class...it's rather old though...just thought I would post it. I was unable to upload the picture being talked about in this blog, sorry guys. (It's a human pyramid of about 7-9 grade 6 kids)
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Every time I look back on this photo, I remember what a loser I was and how naive about everything I was. I thought I had a lot of friends, but in all honesty everyone in this photo consists of every person I associated with until half way through grade eight. I had no idea James would become a very good friend of mine, didn't realize I would be working with Caleb Chan for several years, and never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined I was to be lucky enough to be dating Jazmyn Norrie through high school.(all people in this photo)
This photo was taken at my eleventh birthday party. I organized the whole party myself: I decided what we were going to eat, drink, who was going to be invited, what games we were going to play, what was going to be in the goody bags, and I even decided when the party would start and end. It was a fun enough party, half the time was spent outside building snow forts and snow men.
Whenever I look at this picture I gasp in disbelief at how much that room has changed. There are two enormous bay windows on the far left wall, and the walls, floor, and ceiling are now decorated in a sweet smelling pine. That table was burned along with the old, rickety, chairs, and the stereo speaker barely visible on the far left has been replaced with a warm and inviting wood stove. The couch has been moved to another area, and an antique coffee table sits smack dab in the center of the room. It's quite nice.
Every time I look at this photo I'm shocked at how much people have lost or gained weight, and how I haven't communicated with some of them in several years.
Every time I look back on this photo I remember what a loser I was and how naive about everything I was. I wish I could go back and warn the eleven-year-old version of myself about life, eggs, and rotten fruit. I wish I could warn him of the dangers of not doing math home work and joining band. I wish I could warn him about tests, exams, essays, and little writing assignments that McCallum hands out now and then.
Time Flies.
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Every time I look back on this photo, I remember what a loser I was and how naive about everything I was. I thought I had a lot of friends, but in all honesty everyone in this photo consists of every person I associated with until half way through grade eight. I had no idea James would become a very good friend of mine, didn't realize I would be working with Caleb Chan for several years, and never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined I was to be lucky enough to be dating Jazmyn Norrie through high school.(all people in this photo)
This photo was taken at my eleventh birthday party. I organized the whole party myself: I decided what we were going to eat, drink, who was going to be invited, what games we were going to play, what was going to be in the goody bags, and I even decided when the party would start and end. It was a fun enough party, half the time was spent outside building snow forts and snow men.
Whenever I look at this picture I gasp in disbelief at how much that room has changed. There are two enormous bay windows on the far left wall, and the walls, floor, and ceiling are now decorated in a sweet smelling pine. That table was burned along with the old, rickety, chairs, and the stereo speaker barely visible on the far left has been replaced with a warm and inviting wood stove. The couch has been moved to another area, and an antique coffee table sits smack dab in the center of the room. It's quite nice.
Every time I look at this photo I'm shocked at how much people have lost or gained weight, and how I haven't communicated with some of them in several years.
Every time I look back on this photo I remember what a loser I was and how naive about everything I was. I wish I could go back and warn the eleven-year-old version of myself about life, eggs, and rotten fruit. I wish I could warn him of the dangers of not doing math home work and joining band. I wish I could warn him about tests, exams, essays, and little writing assignments that McCallum hands out now and then.
Time Flies.
Monday, January 19, 2009
The Truth
**This is an essay I wrote for a practical exam and it turned into something I did for fun rather than for a school project...even though I still handed it in. Also note that this essay is not a reflection of my personal opinion in its entirety.**
What is truth? The Intermediate English Dictionary tells us it is, "That which is true". Oxford says truth is, "Something that is true". and the Senior Dictionary of Canadian English sees truth as, "That which is in accordance with the fact or facts". These definitions fail to answer the previously stated question of, 'What is truth?' and leave us with more questions as, 'What is fact?' and, 'If truth is that which is true, what is true?'. The truth is--isn't this ironic?--there is no real definition of truth or fact, because truth is a matter of opinion, and changes with respect to different perspectives. No one was there, 'In the Beginning' and so no one can say how modern life came to be due to the fact that there is no complete, one-hundred percent factual evidence, and so each individual born on this earth must always choose a belief according to their own respected opinion. How does one attain his or her opinion? There are many factors which can effect opinion, three more important factors being where the person was raised and who raised them, where the individual lives as an adult and what their government may or may not enforce as truth, and finally, where a person draws the line for reality.
It is said that a person is most impressionable as a child. If this is true, then whatever their parents teach them, and whatever culture or environment they are raised in, will be the largest influence on their opinion of truth later on in life. Of course, one's opinion of truth must agree with the latter statement in order to agree with the former. However when we observe children such as Piscine Molitor Patel in the book, Life of Pi, we see several instances during which this statement is indeed proven true. The first and most obvious of these is Pi's lessons from his father about animals. Sometimes Pi tells us directly that his father taught him something, and other times it is implied, such as the time Pi talks about zoos and people confusing them with captivity: "Well-meaning but misinformed people htink animals in the wild are, 'happy' because they are, 'free'".(16) Pi goes on to argue that this is not the case, and his argument is quite convincing. It influences one's opinion of truth on the subject. Pi has either drawn the conclusions himself, or--more than likely--has been told so by his father at a young age in response to a question such as, 'Daddy, wouldn't the animals be happier if they were free?'. The second example of Pi's influence from his father is the lesson received concerning the horrible danger of putting your hand in a tiger's cage: "'Tigers are very dangerous,' father shouted".(37) Pi believes this to be true because his father told him, and demonstrates his belief when Richard Parker joins him in the lifeboat later on. Finally, the fact that Pi spent the greater part of his childhood in India may have some influence on his curious religious beliefs, simply because I believe religion to be more diverse in that part of the world. (But hey, I'm from Parry Sound; What do I know?)
This leads us to our next point of influential evidence: Where an individual chooses to live their adult life could have a great impact on their opinion of truth. Perhaps the government enforces a certain religion, or perhaps that neighborhood has a vast majority of indiviudals who share a common belief or idea. Whatever the case, even if it is subconscious, most people will find themselves agreeing with the opinions of those around them. This is evident in, Slaughter-House-Five, with Billy constantly talking about the Tralfamadorians and what they believe: "Billy Pilgrim says that the universe does not look like a lot of bright little dots to the creatues from Tralfamadore"(87). Billy was in the company of the Tralfamadorians for an extended period of time, and throughout his life afterwords, and when he went back and relived his life before Tralfamadore, he looked upon everything with a Tralfamadorian outlook. Billy did not, of course, choose to live on Tralfamadore, but nonetheless, his opinion of truth was influenced by Tralfamadorians to such an extent that is changed his outlook and view on life entirely.
Everyone knows that the story of Tralfamadore isn't true, and I'm sure that if Kurt Vonnegut was still alive he would confirm such. The reason for this is that most everyone agrees that the sotry of Tralfamadore crosses the line of reality. There are, however, those who may choose to believe the story--despite the very visible, 'fiction' printed on the spine of the book--beacuse their line of reality extends further than others. For example, Billy's, 'reality line' extends ridiculously far, whereas the Japanese men who interview Pi in, Life of Pi, choose to believe Pi's second story because it doesn't involve tigers or man-eating islands: "He thinks we're fools...Mr. Patel, we don't believe your story...Banannas don't float...you don't really expect us to believe you do you? Carnivorous trees?...These things don't exist...Your island is botanically impossible...No scientist would believe you...We know enough to know the possible from the impossible"(324-328). They have a more, 'realistic' reality line according to popular world view. The two men repeatedly insist that Pi's sotry is not true because of what they have seen in life; they believe what they see. It is their method of drawing the line for reality. Some have faith, some investigate for proof and evidence, some believe what they hear from, 'wise men', and some--like the two Japanese men--choose to, 'believe it when they see it'. Every one has a line which they establish in their own way.
So what is truth? It is a matter of opinion which changes with respect to different perspectives, and this opinion develops through childhood influences, envrionments lived in as an adult, and where a person draws their, 'reality line'. It's true; these are not the only things that influence an individual's opinion of truth, but they are three of the larger influences. Is any of this true? Well, that all depends on one's opinion.
And that, dear reader is the truth.
(according to Isaac James Golle)
What is truth? The Intermediate English Dictionary tells us it is, "That which is true". Oxford says truth is, "Something that is true". and the Senior Dictionary of Canadian English sees truth as, "That which is in accordance with the fact or facts". These definitions fail to answer the previously stated question of, 'What is truth?' and leave us with more questions as, 'What is fact?' and, 'If truth is that which is true, what is true?'. The truth is--isn't this ironic?--there is no real definition of truth or fact, because truth is a matter of opinion, and changes with respect to different perspectives. No one was there, 'In the Beginning' and so no one can say how modern life came to be due to the fact that there is no complete, one-hundred percent factual evidence, and so each individual born on this earth must always choose a belief according to their own respected opinion. How does one attain his or her opinion? There are many factors which can effect opinion, three more important factors being where the person was raised and who raised them, where the individual lives as an adult and what their government may or may not enforce as truth, and finally, where a person draws the line for reality.
It is said that a person is most impressionable as a child. If this is true, then whatever their parents teach them, and whatever culture or environment they are raised in, will be the largest influence on their opinion of truth later on in life. Of course, one's opinion of truth must agree with the latter statement in order to agree with the former. However when we observe children such as Piscine Molitor Patel in the book, Life of Pi, we see several instances during which this statement is indeed proven true. The first and most obvious of these is Pi's lessons from his father about animals. Sometimes Pi tells us directly that his father taught him something, and other times it is implied, such as the time Pi talks about zoos and people confusing them with captivity: "Well-meaning but misinformed people htink animals in the wild are, 'happy' because they are, 'free'".(16) Pi goes on to argue that this is not the case, and his argument is quite convincing. It influences one's opinion of truth on the subject. Pi has either drawn the conclusions himself, or--more than likely--has been told so by his father at a young age in response to a question such as, 'Daddy, wouldn't the animals be happier if they were free?'. The second example of Pi's influence from his father is the lesson received concerning the horrible danger of putting your hand in a tiger's cage: "'Tigers are very dangerous,' father shouted".(37) Pi believes this to be true because his father told him, and demonstrates his belief when Richard Parker joins him in the lifeboat later on. Finally, the fact that Pi spent the greater part of his childhood in India may have some influence on his curious religious beliefs, simply because I believe religion to be more diverse in that part of the world. (But hey, I'm from Parry Sound; What do I know?)
This leads us to our next point of influential evidence: Where an individual chooses to live their adult life could have a great impact on their opinion of truth. Perhaps the government enforces a certain religion, or perhaps that neighborhood has a vast majority of indiviudals who share a common belief or idea. Whatever the case, even if it is subconscious, most people will find themselves agreeing with the opinions of those around them. This is evident in, Slaughter-House-Five, with Billy constantly talking about the Tralfamadorians and what they believe: "Billy Pilgrim says that the universe does not look like a lot of bright little dots to the creatues from Tralfamadore"(87). Billy was in the company of the Tralfamadorians for an extended period of time, and throughout his life afterwords, and when he went back and relived his life before Tralfamadore, he looked upon everything with a Tralfamadorian outlook. Billy did not, of course, choose to live on Tralfamadore, but nonetheless, his opinion of truth was influenced by Tralfamadorians to such an extent that is changed his outlook and view on life entirely.
Everyone knows that the story of Tralfamadore isn't true, and I'm sure that if Kurt Vonnegut was still alive he would confirm such. The reason for this is that most everyone agrees that the sotry of Tralfamadore crosses the line of reality. There are, however, those who may choose to believe the story--despite the very visible, 'fiction' printed on the spine of the book--beacuse their line of reality extends further than others. For example, Billy's, 'reality line' extends ridiculously far, whereas the Japanese men who interview Pi in, Life of Pi, choose to believe Pi's second story because it doesn't involve tigers or man-eating islands: "He thinks we're fools...Mr. Patel, we don't believe your story...Banannas don't float...you don't really expect us to believe you do you? Carnivorous trees?...These things don't exist...Your island is botanically impossible...No scientist would believe you...We know enough to know the possible from the impossible"(324-328). They have a more, 'realistic' reality line according to popular world view. The two men repeatedly insist that Pi's sotry is not true because of what they have seen in life; they believe what they see. It is their method of drawing the line for reality. Some have faith, some investigate for proof and evidence, some believe what they hear from, 'wise men', and some--like the two Japanese men--choose to, 'believe it when they see it'. Every one has a line which they establish in their own way.
So what is truth? It is a matter of opinion which changes with respect to different perspectives, and this opinion develops through childhood influences, envrionments lived in as an adult, and where a person draws their, 'reality line'. It's true; these are not the only things that influence an individual's opinion of truth, but they are three of the larger influences. Is any of this true? Well, that all depends on one's opinion.
And that, dear reader is the truth.
(according to Isaac James Golle)
Friday, January 9, 2009
The Lecture
Time is quite possibly one of the rudest and most despicable things on earth.
It has not feelings for others and no respect for authority. It sees no value in human life and is indifferent to death. Neither does time care for the importance of ancient and historic relics. The eiffel tower could collapse tomorrow and time would continue on its way, barely giving the wreckage a glance.
Time takes whatever it wants, whenever it wants, and however it wants. It can go about this in a sneaky and crafty way, so that we barely notice until the last minute when it is too late to retreive that which is lost, or time can rip the possession from your arms faster than a bolt of lightning. Whether it be child, spouse, novelty item, friends, collector's items, grandparents, education, or your very own life, time always has its way.
Time always breaks its promises, and keeps absolutely no secrets, no matter what it may tell you.
When time gets bored, it picks away at monuments and finds new ways to torture slowly dying people, both young and old. It will slowly crumble massive mountains while giving false hope to younger, smaller towers of rock and earth, knowing that it will eventually do the same to them.
In fact, false hope happens to be time's favorite, 'game' to play with all inhabitants of the earth. This, accompanied by time's unending level of patience, provide it with decades and centuries of, 'entertainment'.
Isn't it ironic then, to call a death untimely, or be surprised by the deterioration of well-aged artifacts? Is it not ironic to become annoyed with a late package, or to find yourself frustrated with the constant failure of your brand new alarm clock?
Is this not the very nature of the devil that is time? Why then do we continue to satisfy our worst enemy's love for sorrow, frustration, anger, and distress?
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to interrupt but it is drawing near midnight and the professor is old and needs his rest."
"I don't need rest! I will not let time get the best of me!"
"Then you will go to bed so as not to be grumpy and tired tomorrow morning...that would only satisfy time's lust for disorder."
"I see, this is very untimely of you Mrs. Philips."
"I know, I'm sorry."
The Untimely End
It has not feelings for others and no respect for authority. It sees no value in human life and is indifferent to death. Neither does time care for the importance of ancient and historic relics. The eiffel tower could collapse tomorrow and time would continue on its way, barely giving the wreckage a glance.
Time takes whatever it wants, whenever it wants, and however it wants. It can go about this in a sneaky and crafty way, so that we barely notice until the last minute when it is too late to retreive that which is lost, or time can rip the possession from your arms faster than a bolt of lightning. Whether it be child, spouse, novelty item, friends, collector's items, grandparents, education, or your very own life, time always has its way.
Time always breaks its promises, and keeps absolutely no secrets, no matter what it may tell you.
When time gets bored, it picks away at monuments and finds new ways to torture slowly dying people, both young and old. It will slowly crumble massive mountains while giving false hope to younger, smaller towers of rock and earth, knowing that it will eventually do the same to them.
In fact, false hope happens to be time's favorite, 'game' to play with all inhabitants of the earth. This, accompanied by time's unending level of patience, provide it with decades and centuries of, 'entertainment'.
Isn't it ironic then, to call a death untimely, or be surprised by the deterioration of well-aged artifacts? Is it not ironic to become annoyed with a late package, or to find yourself frustrated with the constant failure of your brand new alarm clock?
Is this not the very nature of the devil that is time? Why then do we continue to satisfy our worst enemy's love for sorrow, frustration, anger, and distress?
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to interrupt but it is drawing near midnight and the professor is old and needs his rest."
"I don't need rest! I will not let time get the best of me!"
"Then you will go to bed so as not to be grumpy and tired tomorrow morning...that would only satisfy time's lust for disorder."
"I see, this is very untimely of you Mrs. Philips."
"I know, I'm sorry."
The Untimely End
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Conclusion
So that's it. I hope you enjoyed it and like what you saw...it wasn't really that good was it? I didn't think so. Most other people have said the same thing. But, I mean, it's one of the only ways I can express myself, you know? I just wish I could be better at it, then maybe I could make money doing it! Oh well, better luck next time right? Oh...no next time? Okay. I should probably get going anyway, see you around? No? Oh...okay, bye then.
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