First, you must start out as a loser. Have everyone staring at you and commenting on your greasy appearance all the time. It is important that the whole school knows what a weird person you are.
After a year, you should look in the mirror and realize that your face resembles a puffy mountain range, and your clothes have no logos on them.
Spend an outlandish sum of money on acne cream, fancy clothes and the most expensive, "bling" you can find. Make sure you spend almost ALL of your money; it is cool to be broke sometimes.
Begin working out; if you're hot you're more popular.
When school starts, you will walk up to a suitable looking group and make a name for your self. Punch the coolest and strongest person in the face. You will not win this fight.
Realize you have accomplished nothing. Expect facial reconstruction surgery.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Ponder
I so often find myself questioning the rhyme and reason of humanity. I look at the world we live in; the little tiny, insignificant speck hanging so precariously onto a force we have deemed, "orbit". I look at all the faith, trust and hope that has been placed in this little rock. This rock which somehow manifests anything and everything we need to survive, and takes all our mistreatment and beatings without making a sound. I look at all the people which have come and gone. I notice how so many have passed through moments of greatness and stardom...and many who have passed through these moments have ended up the most dissatisfied and depressed on the day of their death.
I look at these things and my mind always returns to that scripture composed by Solomon while he lay slowly decomposing on his death bed. Ecclesiastes. The scripture which is a lament to the futility of man. A warning to future generations that anything and everything which lays under the careful watch of our ever-present sun--is futile. Every fight, every movie, every book, every kiss, every bite, every drink, every step, every handshake, every smile, every frown, every look, every glance, every stare, every comment, every view, every yell, every whisper....all of it is futile. Anything and everything that is invested into our world will eventually be forgotten and left behind to rust and rot in the deadness of space. What are we fighting for? What are we crying for? What are we singing for? Why do we kill eachother? Why do we hug eachother? Why do talk to eachother? Why, if we claim to be so intelligent that many believe religion unnecessary, do we continue to fight wars over resources which will soon be depleted anyway? Why do we spend so much of our time worrying about things that will not matter eventually?
Why is life so important to those who didn't even ask for it in the first place?
I look at these things and my mind always returns to that scripture composed by Solomon while he lay slowly decomposing on his death bed. Ecclesiastes. The scripture which is a lament to the futility of man. A warning to future generations that anything and everything which lays under the careful watch of our ever-present sun--is futile. Every fight, every movie, every book, every kiss, every bite, every drink, every step, every handshake, every smile, every frown, every look, every glance, every stare, every comment, every view, every yell, every whisper....all of it is futile. Anything and everything that is invested into our world will eventually be forgotten and left behind to rust and rot in the deadness of space. What are we fighting for? What are we crying for? What are we singing for? Why do we kill eachother? Why do we hug eachother? Why do talk to eachother? Why, if we claim to be so intelligent that many believe religion unnecessary, do we continue to fight wars over resources which will soon be depleted anyway? Why do we spend so much of our time worrying about things that will not matter eventually?
Why is life so important to those who didn't even ask for it in the first place?
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Possible Impossibles
Day dreaming is such a prejudice term. Not because it discludes creatures such as vampires, werewolves, and gargoyles,--though one could make an extremely convincing argument for that--but because it discludes those who dream at night.
Now you're thinking, "Yea but that's called regular dreaming." and I say you are in fact absolutely wrong, because I'm speaking of day dreaming while still totally and fully conscious at night. To call such a thing day dreaming is either some kind of crime or an absolute paradox. It should be impossible to do something at night which includes the word, "day" in the description and/or title. Daybreakers do not come out at night, and day time does not happen at night time. Night and day are opposites.
Opposites most often don't happen at the same time, except when opposites attract. But that is of course an old wives tale which attempts to relate the behaviour of magnets to the relationships of human beings. It is ludicrous to make such an assumption as magnets are pieces of metal which are completely incapable of having any emotion whatsoever, never mind love or affection.
However it HAS been scientifically proven that people with the same personalities often clash for reasons which don't really seem to make any sense but upon further investigation make even less sense than before, in turn giving us the realization that it actually makes perfect sense because nothing ever really makes sense anyway.
Much in the same sense that day dreaming at night makes absolutely no sense to anyone who has any sense about having sense in the first place. To day dream at night is to defy the laws of creation--or the universe if you would prefer--and so one comes to a certain revelation when considering this. It would be nice--and ideal--to come up with a name for day dreaming at night so as to make life a little confusing and a little more sensible, but the fact of the matter is that we don't like it when things make sense, because then life becomes less exciting and less mysterious, and when removing words such as exciting and mysterious from a sentence, the only word that comes to mind is dull.
Unofortunately, for the most part, life is a great big heap of dull. Until we stumble across things such as day dreaming at night, and fascinate ourselves with the idea that such a thing should be impossible, and yet we continue to do it even as we think so, creating a heroic moment for ourselves as we bask in the small yet triumphant light of somehow doing the impossible--even though it's really only impossible on paper.
It is in these imaginative day-dreaming-at-night moments that we truly live, and we must never forget to cling tightly to the Impossible-made-possible moments by re-enacting them time and time again. On paper. With a pen. At exactly 2:26 in the morning. Which for some reason is the only time I can ever get any inspiration to do anything: When I day dream at night.
Now you're thinking, "Yea but that's called regular dreaming." and I say you are in fact absolutely wrong, because I'm speaking of day dreaming while still totally and fully conscious at night. To call such a thing day dreaming is either some kind of crime or an absolute paradox. It should be impossible to do something at night which includes the word, "day" in the description and/or title. Daybreakers do not come out at night, and day time does not happen at night time. Night and day are opposites.
Opposites most often don't happen at the same time, except when opposites attract. But that is of course an old wives tale which attempts to relate the behaviour of magnets to the relationships of human beings. It is ludicrous to make such an assumption as magnets are pieces of metal which are completely incapable of having any emotion whatsoever, never mind love or affection.
However it HAS been scientifically proven that people with the same personalities often clash for reasons which don't really seem to make any sense but upon further investigation make even less sense than before, in turn giving us the realization that it actually makes perfect sense because nothing ever really makes sense anyway.
Much in the same sense that day dreaming at night makes absolutely no sense to anyone who has any sense about having sense in the first place. To day dream at night is to defy the laws of creation--or the universe if you would prefer--and so one comes to a certain revelation when considering this. It would be nice--and ideal--to come up with a name for day dreaming at night so as to make life a little confusing and a little more sensible, but the fact of the matter is that we don't like it when things make sense, because then life becomes less exciting and less mysterious, and when removing words such as exciting and mysterious from a sentence, the only word that comes to mind is dull.
Unofortunately, for the most part, life is a great big heap of dull. Until we stumble across things such as day dreaming at night, and fascinate ourselves with the idea that such a thing should be impossible, and yet we continue to do it even as we think so, creating a heroic moment for ourselves as we bask in the small yet triumphant light of somehow doing the impossible--even though it's really only impossible on paper.
It is in these imaginative day-dreaming-at-night moments that we truly live, and we must never forget to cling tightly to the Impossible-made-possible moments by re-enacting them time and time again. On paper. With a pen. At exactly 2:26 in the morning. Which for some reason is the only time I can ever get any inspiration to do anything: When I day dream at night.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Nothing Ever Makes Sense
I am Isaac.
I like doing many things. Most of which many people also like doing, but in a different way and for different reasons. Some people do things because everyone else is doing them, and some people like doing things because it makes them look cool. Others try doing things to get attention. Others still need something to brag about, so they do stuff that they can brag about.
I do things because I enjoy doing them. I don't care if one person is doing it, or millions of people are doing it, I will do what I want when I want.
Some of the things I enjoy doing are writing, filming, reading, writing, watching movies, writing, hanging out with friends, writing, and jumping off of cliffs. I also sometimes like to write.
If you know me, you'll know that you know me, and no one will be able to dispute that fact because only you can know what you know you know about the things you know. That's called self-confidence. Sometimes I feel like I have way too much of it. Another thing you'll know if you know me is that I take far too much enjoyment in sarcasm, irony, satire, anti-jokes and the like. Basically I am heavily influenced and very over saturated by British humor. Sometimes I think about that. That previous sentence is a completely true fact, by the way.
I think that anything else you want to know about me should probably be asked personally and quickly, as I might forget it soon.
Nothing ever makes sense.
I like doing many things. Most of which many people also like doing, but in a different way and for different reasons. Some people do things because everyone else is doing them, and some people like doing things because it makes them look cool. Others try doing things to get attention. Others still need something to brag about, so they do stuff that they can brag about.
I do things because I enjoy doing them. I don't care if one person is doing it, or millions of people are doing it, I will do what I want when I want.
Some of the things I enjoy doing are writing, filming, reading, writing, watching movies, writing, hanging out with friends, writing, and jumping off of cliffs. I also sometimes like to write.
If you know me, you'll know that you know me, and no one will be able to dispute that fact because only you can know what you know you know about the things you know. That's called self-confidence. Sometimes I feel like I have way too much of it. Another thing you'll know if you know me is that I take far too much enjoyment in sarcasm, irony, satire, anti-jokes and the like. Basically I am heavily influenced and very over saturated by British humor. Sometimes I think about that. That previous sentence is a completely true fact, by the way.
I think that anything else you want to know about me should probably be asked personally and quickly, as I might forget it soon.
Nothing ever makes sense.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Lovingly Ludacris
The book of love is long and boring. Peter Gabriel wrote that. I like to think that if I ever meet Peter Gabriel I will slap him in the face, call him an idiot, and politely ask that he never attempt to write his own lyrics ever again. And for the sake of the millions who can't stand him I'll also tell him to give up his musical career...but only if I feel like it.
Of course with my luck I won't get to meet the ancient fellow before he passes. Then again, he'll probably die of a drug overdose--and if you think that's a little pretentious then feel free to show me a musician who HASN'T died of a drug overdose in the past several decades.
However we must return to the main topic of this spiel before I forget exactly what it is in the first place.
The topic of this spiel is love, believe it or not(There must be some kind of record for going off topic right at the very beginning of a meaningless paper. If there is I've won it. Multiple times).
The reason I find Peter Gabriel to be an idiot in concordance with that particular line is because he couldn't be more wrong. Anyone who has ever experienced real, compassionate, unending, caring, patient and understanding love will tell you that love is anything but boring. Especially those who have experienced the kind of love a random stranger gives when they lend a hand without even being asked. Or the kind of love a songwriter has with their music and instruments, or an artist with their brush. Love is not boring to a 90 year old man who hardly has the strength to wake up in the morning, but still has the ability to muster a smile for his wife who he still finds beautiful with or without the countless wrinkles. Love is not boring to a woman who comes home every year to a different surprise from the man who never forgets their anniversary.
Anyone who has experienced real, pure love will tell you that there is never a dull moment in their lives, and that the book of love isn't long by any means; it actually never ends.
Unfortunately, the few who have experienced real love are too busy being loved and loving others so they don't have time to write on and on about the wonderful experiences they have. I have yet to experience real love, but I have done my best to demonstrate it to others, and I hope that you will do the same as I will continue to do so.
However, this is not the book of love, so it does have an ending. I think I'll put it here.
Of course with my luck I won't get to meet the ancient fellow before he passes. Then again, he'll probably die of a drug overdose--and if you think that's a little pretentious then feel free to show me a musician who HASN'T died of a drug overdose in the past several decades.
However we must return to the main topic of this spiel before I forget exactly what it is in the first place.
The topic of this spiel is love, believe it or not(There must be some kind of record for going off topic right at the very beginning of a meaningless paper. If there is I've won it. Multiple times).
The reason I find Peter Gabriel to be an idiot in concordance with that particular line is because he couldn't be more wrong. Anyone who has ever experienced real, compassionate, unending, caring, patient and understanding love will tell you that love is anything but boring. Especially those who have experienced the kind of love a random stranger gives when they lend a hand without even being asked. Or the kind of love a songwriter has with their music and instruments, or an artist with their brush. Love is not boring to a 90 year old man who hardly has the strength to wake up in the morning, but still has the ability to muster a smile for his wife who he still finds beautiful with or without the countless wrinkles. Love is not boring to a woman who comes home every year to a different surprise from the man who never forgets their anniversary.
Anyone who has experienced real, pure love will tell you that there is never a dull moment in their lives, and that the book of love isn't long by any means; it actually never ends.
Unfortunately, the few who have experienced real love are too busy being loved and loving others so they don't have time to write on and on about the wonderful experiences they have. I have yet to experience real love, but I have done my best to demonstrate it to others, and I hope that you will do the same as I will continue to do so.
However, this is not the book of love, so it does have an ending. I think I'll put it here.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Giant Space Ships
People don't take life seriously enough. They also take life way too seriously. Of course, half the time they don't even realise they're doing either, and most of the time they know it full well but pretend they don't. The rest of the time they imagine what it would be like if they took the proper dosage of serious and stopped pretending not to know what they know about what they don't know in regards to seriousness.
Of course, a schedule like this leaves no free time, and so it is obvious that any self-proclaimed writer is immune to any such thoughts, but somehow victim to a thousand-thousand worse and more complicated ones.
But I digress(if you don't believe me check your local newspaper's mediocre section. They always have the latest news on the world's most boring habits. Digression is the newest addition; I'm currently ranked number one! If you're having trouble finding the mediocre section of your newspaper, go buy the most powerful microscope you can find and look under the period at the end of the last article in the newspaper; you'll find everything there). See?
My original point was that humans spend a lot of time wasting time by doing things that don't matter and having literally endless arguments about things that do matter, but most of the time end up not doing or learning anything about any of it.
If things were vice versa, there is a good chance that humanity would be getting a lot more done not only in respects to this lovely little planet which has so graciously donated its tender and beautiful surface for our destructive pleasures, but also in respects of space, time, and the universe. If humanity spent less time inventing potato chips and more time inventing giant space ships, we might know much more than what we like to think we know about much more than anything we can even begin to comprehend, never mind know.
I once imagined what it would be like if humanity built a ship the size of earth. I imagined humanity leaving earth upon completion of the project due to earth's general disappearance after having every last life-supporting-morsel sucked from its' veins. I then imagined humanity exploring the entirety of the galaxy, killing countless planets with pollution and resource abuse. Over time our pitiful species forgot all about the beautiful planet from which we originated, and quickly went extinct right after the death of the last known galaxy in the Universe--and no one was there to congradulate us for surviving the longest.
Needless to say I wasn't surprised.
One could argue that one can never be surprised by one's own imagination, and I'm sure one could have some very interesting points; possibly even winning the argument. Typical.
Of course, a schedule like this leaves no free time, and so it is obvious that any self-proclaimed writer is immune to any such thoughts, but somehow victim to a thousand-thousand worse and more complicated ones.
But I digress(if you don't believe me check your local newspaper's mediocre section. They always have the latest news on the world's most boring habits. Digression is the newest addition; I'm currently ranked number one! If you're having trouble finding the mediocre section of your newspaper, go buy the most powerful microscope you can find and look under the period at the end of the last article in the newspaper; you'll find everything there). See?
My original point was that humans spend a lot of time wasting time by doing things that don't matter and having literally endless arguments about things that do matter, but most of the time end up not doing or learning anything about any of it.
If things were vice versa, there is a good chance that humanity would be getting a lot more done not only in respects to this lovely little planet which has so graciously donated its tender and beautiful surface for our destructive pleasures, but also in respects of space, time, and the universe. If humanity spent less time inventing potato chips and more time inventing giant space ships, we might know much more than what we like to think we know about much more than anything we can even begin to comprehend, never mind know.
I once imagined what it would be like if humanity built a ship the size of earth. I imagined humanity leaving earth upon completion of the project due to earth's general disappearance after having every last life-supporting-morsel sucked from its' veins. I then imagined humanity exploring the entirety of the galaxy, killing countless planets with pollution and resource abuse. Over time our pitiful species forgot all about the beautiful planet from which we originated, and quickly went extinct right after the death of the last known galaxy in the Universe--and no one was there to congradulate us for surviving the longest.
Needless to say I wasn't surprised.
One could argue that one can never be surprised by one's own imagination, and I'm sure one could have some very interesting points; possibly even winning the argument. Typical.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Timed Writing Collab
This is just a random collaboration of some things I wrote in writer's craft this semester. I'm gonna miss this class...
None of these are finished, they're what I came up with in 8-12 minutes of straight writing when given a single topic by Mrs. Crawford. Maybe you can figure out what all the topics are? Try it if you dare...
The titles are just that, not the actual topic for the piece. The topic is hidden within the writing.
The Five Senses:
It looks like garbage, smells like fetus, feels like goo, sounds like death, and tastes like candy. What is it? Who knows, and frankly, who cares?
I move on to the next sample. This one looks more like apples, so I'm okay to touch it. Ew: feels more like soggy diapers. Take a bite? Gosh, I really don't want to. I bring it up to my mouth, and am suddenly overwhelmed with a putrid stench of rotten raspberries. As I bite into this mushy munchable, it makes a crunching noise, which is odd because it felt so soft.
The taste is unbearable, and I vomit as I have so many times before.
"Take it away!" I cry, "I can stand this torture no longer!"
"But sir," whimpers the chef, "We have been called the greatest resturaunt in all of France and even Europe!"
"And I am known as the world's hardest food critic." I bluntly reply: "I bid you good day, monsieur, but know I will not be returning for a very long time."
I hate my job, but the pay is good, and no one knows my secret.
After all, being autistic DOES heighten one's senses.
Blanker Boy
Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank.
Kind of sounds like bank.
Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank.
The sound of my pen scribbling this down on the paper reminds me of a drummer boy, proudly wielding his brand new snare drum through the town streets as a small addition to the glorious marching band.
He is happy, and pounding his drum with all the passion in the world. Blank. Blank. Blank. Do not read the word but hear it. Take a pen, and scribble it down as fast as you can.
Blank. Blank. Blank.
Do you hear the drummer boy parading across your empty page? Do you see him on the streets making a glorious parade?
Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank.
What a sound, what a sight! This little drummer boy is filled with delight!
Blank. Blank. Blank. Goes the drum. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. He is happy as can be, with his brand new little drum.
Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank.
I apologize if it is all you read, but the sound is fascinating and intriguing for me.
Blank. Blank.
"That is it and that is all!" he shouts as the song comes to a close, and finishes it off with one final beat of the drum.
Blank.
Searched
Finding a topic for writing is about as easy as finding a needle in a haystack--pardon the cliche--but it is. The ironic reason for this is that there are so many topics to choose from. One simply has to walk outside and witness whether the weather is good or bad, if the neighbor's dog is outside, or if the tree's leaves have changed color. Look at the sky, look at the ground, look left, look right, look at doors, look at windows(not in them), look at flowers, look at trees look at grass, look at sand. The list is endless. One simply has to observe, and the mind is flooded with ideas. But the problem is this: which one to use?
The Dress-Lady
She was enchanting. A long, flowing white dress and beautiful blond hair. She gazed at me with eyes so stunning and so...commanding...in a gentle sort of way. She led me through the dark, tormenting forest, and I followed with no question because...well...what else could I do but get lost even more so in the evil forest. She led me, but kept her enchanting spell of a stare upon me, always seeming to get further and further away. She glowed like a star at midnight, so it was not hard to keep her in sight as I did my best to match her alarmingly quick steps. It seemed as though decades had passed before she stopped.
And when she did, my heart nearly leapt with joy. We were standing at the edge of a large, open green valley--a haven amongst the terrible darkness of the evil forest. The lush plants were supplied with beautiful sunlight--something I had not seen in many days--and broke their glorious pattern only once to make way for an entrancing and roaring waterfall which ran its course into a river chich again flowed back into the hellish forest. I knew then, that this was the place I had been searching for.
I turned to thank the lady--but she was gone.
The Sandbox
Let's go on an adventure, let's get on a plane. Let's catch kangaroos and wildabeasts and gophers too. Let's go to Africa and roam with the lions. Let's get on a boat and sail across the ocean. We'll skydive and deep dive and maybe even tunnel dive to our heart's content. We'll climb the eiffel tower and worship every hour. We'll ski the alps, we'll tour Italy, maybe even visit Sicily. Let's go on an adventure, let's have lots of fun. We'll dance and we'll play and we'll laugh in the sun. Eat fine cheeses and dine on savory chocolates. An adventure sounds good, yes it sounds fun to me. We'll go on an adventure and we'll do it from our own backyard.
Unbelievable
The sun said no. I can't believe it. After thirty years of partnership, the Toronto Sun turned me down. That is, until the dragons showed up. The Toronto Junior Dragons: A local child's sports team who had recently been involved in a most unfortunate series of events. I wanted to write an article on the outlandish ongoings of the young athletes, but the Toronto Sun wouldn't believe a single word I said.
So I called the team. Every single little sports fanatic showed up at the door of the paper's big-city-high-rise and testified to each and every one of my claims.
Billy DID land in an erupting volcano while skydiving. It was a science project gone wrong at the local fair.
Jonathan's grandfather WAS up for the electric chair. It was a new kind that did special massages
Matthew DID have an invisible tumor the size of your face--on his face. It was an excellent drawing.
Alex could NOT find his pinky toe for the life of him. He really needs to lose weight.
Jerry CAN jump over the moon. He just has to wait until it's as close to the horizon as possible.
And Larry WAS just robbed of a million dollars without the authorities giving a care. Some people just don't know how to play monopoly.
The Christian Count
"Welcome to the count's ball monsieur. We've been long awaiting your arrival."
I smiled curtly at the french valet as I stepped outside of my road-weary coach, then turned to assist my wife on the coach steps.
"You ready?" I asked as she placed her foot on solid ground for the first time in three hours.
She just smiled and kissed me on the cheek.
We linked arms and made our way to the large front doors of one of the most magnificent ballrooms in Paris.
"This is quite the anniversary present." giggled my wife as a tuxedo-clad butler smiled, bowed, and slowly opened the door for us.
"Enris is a very generous man." I replied, then looked at her and added, "and a very good friend to have indeed."
We made our way down a long, wide, red-carpeted set of stairs into the party.
There were people everywhere. Rich people, poor people, black people, white people, pretty people, and ugly people.
"But he's obviously a christian." I frowned.
hard soft spots
There is a hard spot in a very soft place many many miles away. I know not what it is or where it goes or how it goes or why it goes, but it goes. And goes, and goes, and goes, and goes. Forever and ever. Always. It never stops, never will stop, never can stop, and never wants to stop. I don't know hy. I just know it does. And does, and does, and does, and does. Somehow it is always full of energy: never even slowing. I wish I could be like the hard place: long, black, noisy, and with a dotted line running down the middle.
Like a snake.
The END
None of these are finished, they're what I came up with in 8-12 minutes of straight writing when given a single topic by Mrs. Crawford. Maybe you can figure out what all the topics are? Try it if you dare...
The titles are just that, not the actual topic for the piece. The topic is hidden within the writing.
The Five Senses:
It looks like garbage, smells like fetus, feels like goo, sounds like death, and tastes like candy. What is it? Who knows, and frankly, who cares?
I move on to the next sample. This one looks more like apples, so I'm okay to touch it. Ew: feels more like soggy diapers. Take a bite? Gosh, I really don't want to. I bring it up to my mouth, and am suddenly overwhelmed with a putrid stench of rotten raspberries. As I bite into this mushy munchable, it makes a crunching noise, which is odd because it felt so soft.
The taste is unbearable, and I vomit as I have so many times before.
"Take it away!" I cry, "I can stand this torture no longer!"
"But sir," whimpers the chef, "We have been called the greatest resturaunt in all of France and even Europe!"
"And I am known as the world's hardest food critic." I bluntly reply: "I bid you good day, monsieur, but know I will not be returning for a very long time."
I hate my job, but the pay is good, and no one knows my secret.
After all, being autistic DOES heighten one's senses.
Blanker Boy
Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank.
Kind of sounds like bank.
Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank.
The sound of my pen scribbling this down on the paper reminds me of a drummer boy, proudly wielding his brand new snare drum through the town streets as a small addition to the glorious marching band.
He is happy, and pounding his drum with all the passion in the world. Blank. Blank. Blank. Do not read the word but hear it. Take a pen, and scribble it down as fast as you can.
Blank. Blank. Blank.
Do you hear the drummer boy parading across your empty page? Do you see him on the streets making a glorious parade?
Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank.
What a sound, what a sight! This little drummer boy is filled with delight!
Blank. Blank. Blank. Goes the drum. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. He is happy as can be, with his brand new little drum.
Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank.
I apologize if it is all you read, but the sound is fascinating and intriguing for me.
Blank. Blank.
"That is it and that is all!" he shouts as the song comes to a close, and finishes it off with one final beat of the drum.
Blank.
Searched
Finding a topic for writing is about as easy as finding a needle in a haystack--pardon the cliche--but it is. The ironic reason for this is that there are so many topics to choose from. One simply has to walk outside and witness whether the weather is good or bad, if the neighbor's dog is outside, or if the tree's leaves have changed color. Look at the sky, look at the ground, look left, look right, look at doors, look at windows(not in them), look at flowers, look at trees look at grass, look at sand. The list is endless. One simply has to observe, and the mind is flooded with ideas. But the problem is this: which one to use?
The Dress-Lady
She was enchanting. A long, flowing white dress and beautiful blond hair. She gazed at me with eyes so stunning and so...commanding...in a gentle sort of way. She led me through the dark, tormenting forest, and I followed with no question because...well...what else could I do but get lost even more so in the evil forest. She led me, but kept her enchanting spell of a stare upon me, always seeming to get further and further away. She glowed like a star at midnight, so it was not hard to keep her in sight as I did my best to match her alarmingly quick steps. It seemed as though decades had passed before she stopped.
And when she did, my heart nearly leapt with joy. We were standing at the edge of a large, open green valley--a haven amongst the terrible darkness of the evil forest. The lush plants were supplied with beautiful sunlight--something I had not seen in many days--and broke their glorious pattern only once to make way for an entrancing and roaring waterfall which ran its course into a river chich again flowed back into the hellish forest. I knew then, that this was the place I had been searching for.
I turned to thank the lady--but she was gone.
The Sandbox
Let's go on an adventure, let's get on a plane. Let's catch kangaroos and wildabeasts and gophers too. Let's go to Africa and roam with the lions. Let's get on a boat and sail across the ocean. We'll skydive and deep dive and maybe even tunnel dive to our heart's content. We'll climb the eiffel tower and worship every hour. We'll ski the alps, we'll tour Italy, maybe even visit Sicily. Let's go on an adventure, let's have lots of fun. We'll dance and we'll play and we'll laugh in the sun. Eat fine cheeses and dine on savory chocolates. An adventure sounds good, yes it sounds fun to me. We'll go on an adventure and we'll do it from our own backyard.
Unbelievable
The sun said no. I can't believe it. After thirty years of partnership, the Toronto Sun turned me down. That is, until the dragons showed up. The Toronto Junior Dragons: A local child's sports team who had recently been involved in a most unfortunate series of events. I wanted to write an article on the outlandish ongoings of the young athletes, but the Toronto Sun wouldn't believe a single word I said.
So I called the team. Every single little sports fanatic showed up at the door of the paper's big-city-high-rise and testified to each and every one of my claims.
Billy DID land in an erupting volcano while skydiving. It was a science project gone wrong at the local fair.
Jonathan's grandfather WAS up for the electric chair. It was a new kind that did special massages
Matthew DID have an invisible tumor the size of your face--on his face. It was an excellent drawing.
Alex could NOT find his pinky toe for the life of him. He really needs to lose weight.
Jerry CAN jump over the moon. He just has to wait until it's as close to the horizon as possible.
And Larry WAS just robbed of a million dollars without the authorities giving a care. Some people just don't know how to play monopoly.
The Christian Count
"Welcome to the count's ball monsieur. We've been long awaiting your arrival."
I smiled curtly at the french valet as I stepped outside of my road-weary coach, then turned to assist my wife on the coach steps.
"You ready?" I asked as she placed her foot on solid ground for the first time in three hours.
She just smiled and kissed me on the cheek.
We linked arms and made our way to the large front doors of one of the most magnificent ballrooms in Paris.
"This is quite the anniversary present." giggled my wife as a tuxedo-clad butler smiled, bowed, and slowly opened the door for us.
"Enris is a very generous man." I replied, then looked at her and added, "and a very good friend to have indeed."
We made our way down a long, wide, red-carpeted set of stairs into the party.
There were people everywhere. Rich people, poor people, black people, white people, pretty people, and ugly people.
"But he's obviously a christian." I frowned.
hard soft spots
There is a hard spot in a very soft place many many miles away. I know not what it is or where it goes or how it goes or why it goes, but it goes. And goes, and goes, and goes, and goes. Forever and ever. Always. It never stops, never will stop, never can stop, and never wants to stop. I don't know hy. I just know it does. And does, and does, and does, and does. Somehow it is always full of energy: never even slowing. I wish I could be like the hard place: long, black, noisy, and with a dotted line running down the middle.
Like a snake.
The END
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