She would drive home through a toxic twist of turns. Unsure of whether the fog was coming from her mind or the road, she would finally arrive at the Dove family house on Patterson Street. She tried her best to keep her membership a secret. Sitting there smothered by a fossil of problems, she knew what await her once she stepped outside of her car.
Every night, Lily stood outside her car and stare at the infinite piles of dog shit that surrounded the vehicle. “It’s my fucking step mom, I know it, I know it!” she would say. Lily’s only suspect to blame for this new encounter of steamy welcomes was her stepmother Gretchen. Gretchen and Lily got along great.
Gretchen was an elderly old southern bell. She wore glasses that were a 1950s style with over-sized, red plastic rims across the top. The exaggerated rims looked like a rusty butterfly with black spots. They blocked her wrinkled and craggy face. Very unlike her stepmother, Lily saw the world through scabby telescopes. At the expense of what Gretchen called her “huffie puffies”, Lily’s hair color changed twice a weak from mellow yellow to turtle green, and ruby red. Gretchen could only see in two colors; the first was white, and the second was whiter. But racist pigs were not the concerning issue-at-hand with Lily. She just wanted her stepmother to stop walking the dogs near her car.
Apparently, Gretchen got pissed at Lily when she started parking her car in the driveway, unlike her usual spot in the street. Gretchen was old and couldn’t really drive that well, and when she needed to back out of the driveway in the morning for work, well she had a little trouble. Lily felt there was plenty of room for her to park in the driveway. So Gretchen’s solution, instead of practicing mother to stepdaughter futility, she would every night before bed, take the two family dogs to relieve themselves in the little grass yard besides Lily’s car, hoping her stepdaughter would give up and stumble her car back to the street.
Gretchen would just say something very dainty, “Good Heavens, I haven’t the slightest clue, and Lily, stop saying ‘shit’, say ‘poo’. It’s more polite.” To this day, Lily wonders where the extension chord is to plug-in Gretchen. This problem could have been easily solved by Lily parking in the garage, and Gretchen in the driveway. However, stubbornness was seen as a positive character trait for the Dove family. Lily hated being in the street, and Gretchen wanted the garage because she was certain her car would get stolen if parked in the driveway. So on and on, every night Lily would tiptoe over landmines, and every morning, Gretchen would slowly and gracefully, monster truck her way over the driveway, wondering each and every time if she would make it to the street.
Her first attempt was somewhat of a miss. She could have been backing out of an airplane hanger, and it still wouldn’t have made a difference. Gretchen’s stale green hunk of metal that floated on water had this silver bumper that stuck out along the nose of the car. The rusty and faded bumper, jagged around the sides, knew well of Gretchen’s driving record, and sweated every time it heard the engine spark. During her first effort, Gretchen slowly and delicately steered this hang tooth bumper, which just happened to latch onto a two week old garbage bag that Lily never took out, which resulted in Lily’s car receiving a sponge bath in rubbish that morning. Gretchen really couldn’t see that well, so she didn’t notice anything, and well, she struggled with hearing things too, so the clank-scrap-rip across the side of Lily’s car went unnoticed as well. She drove her whole way to work with a trash bag on her bumper. Little kids on school buses giggled towards their education that morning, sailing next to a green boat, and Captain Gretchen S. Dove spreading her junky graffiti across the roadway.
“So not only do I have to deal with dog shit at my feet every time I get out of my car, I also have to worry about used diapers stuck to my tire? You know how embarrassing that is?” Lily belched.
“If you would have taken out the trash like I asked you wouldn’t be crying,” Gretchen defended. “A little grease for your elbow wouldn’t hurt ya’ know?”
“No, now my entire body is greasy thanks to Miss Skippidy-Do-Da,” Lily whined. “I’m gonna go shower in bleach. Thanks. Oh, I heard BFI is hiring by the way, just thought, you might want to apply.”
The next night, Lily hazed home sliding through turns and weaves preparing for an unpleasant walk from her car to the house. During her drive, she stumbled across the idea of parking on the right side of the driveway. This, in her mind, would take care of the landmines, and hopefully free her car from anything that latched onto Gretchen’s bumper. Not the worst of ideas, a noble effort of sorts. She just looked over one small detail. Gretchen’s right eye had a very skewed peripheral ability. That next morning, Gretchen opened the garage door and peered happily out. “She finally wised up and parked in the street,” she muttered to herself. With no obstacles in sight, Gretchen with a new confidence, decided to back out a little faster then normal. The two cars fused and flushed together for three feet before she felt the resistance. This time, Gretchen heard what became of the clank-scrap-rip, which really was just one long SKRIEK, which awoke the neighborhood that morning.
Lily slowly stumbled outside in crabby pajamas rubbing her eyes against the first images of the day.
“Please tell me this is a nightmare.” She moaned.
Gretchen desperately squeaked, “You know my right eye is lame, how was I to know you parked on the right side of the driveway when you normally park on the left?”
“Whatever, you’re paying for this.” Lily said turning towards the house realizing that the two hours she could normally be sleeping in for, would be spent plotting her stepmother’s demise.
The next night came upon them. Lily spent the whole day brainstorming on how to get back at her stepmother. This was the night. Focused and calm, Lily drove home impatiently through twirls of clarity. She was alert and determined, and the only thing in sight was her destination. Arriving home, Lily parked in the middle of the driveway, knowing all well that Gretchen would not be backing out the next morning. She spent the next half hour unplugging her stepmothers car battery, releasing all the air in her tires, and hiding Gretchen’s keys in the one place she knew she wouldn’t find them, her trunk. Lily fell asleep that night with a smile, not caring what was to come that morning, because she knew that her car was safe and sound from Gretchen’s monster boat.
The next morning Gretchen came across the sabotage left for her from the night before. Not even bothering looking for her keys, she left a note on the table for Lily to find when she awoke. It read:
Dear Lily,
I needed a car for work so I borrowed yours!
Love,
Gretchen
Lily came across the letter that morning, and was so angry, she decided to skip school and wait for her stepmother. Gretchen arrived home early from work to find Lily sitting by the door.
“Was that a taxi that dropped you off?” Lilly asked.
“Well, we need to have a talk dear.” Gretchen said.
“Where the fuck is my car?” Lilly screamed.
“Honey, what did I tell you about that word?” Gretchen hesitated.
“The only thing you need to be telling me is where my fucking car is.” She ruptured.
“Well, I was on my way to work, just putting along, and this cop car came out of no where, and I sorta got in a little fender bender.” Gretchen revealed.
“You hit a cop?” she asked.
“Sort of, but don’t worry, your car is fine, it was the officers car that got damaged. I swore I thought the light was green, it looked green, but you know me and my vision,” she explained. “Well, ultimately, because I’m not insured on your car, and it’s registered to you, they had to tow it. I swear it wasn’t my fault.”
Gretchen swears to this day she saw Lily’s eyes do a three sixty inside her sockets. Lily unable to drive anywhere spent the rest of the day and night locked in her room. Every time Gretchen knocked on her door, Lily screamed for her to go away.
The next morning came, and with no vehicle for Gretchen to go to work, and no vehicle for Lily to go to school, the Doves boarded the crowded city bus. There were only two seats left, and to Lily’s disappointment, they were right next to each other. They plopped down on the hard plastic and waited for the sudden jolt for the public transit system to begin. They were quiet most of the time. Gretchen would go to open her mouth and Lily would dramatically throw her hands in the air saying, “Don’t talk to me!” Gretchen gave up and spent the rest of the time with her eyes shut. When it came time for Lily to get off the bus, Gretchen felt a grueling stare from her stepdaughter. “Thanks for being a true asshole,” Lilly said.
Gretchen’s simple response was, “Hey. This is a world of sticks and stones!”
Lily sighed, “Yeah, but you are the only one who doesn’t feel broken bones.”
Gretchen frowned. “I’m sorry,” she said as Lily exited the bus.
For two-weeks, the two sat next to each other on the city bus. When they did finally get their vehicles back, Lilly ended parked in the street, and Gretchen spent forty-five minutes picking up dog shit.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Friday, March 21, 2008
It's been awhile
Hey guys, sorry I haven't posted in awhile, but below is a short story I'm working on for my creative writing class, it's a rough draft. Let me know what you think.
Much love,
Joe Wilbert
Much love,
Joe Wilbert
Junky Graffiti (a short story)
She would drive home through a toxic twist of turns. Unsure of whether the fog was coming from her mind or the road, she would finally arrive at what little she could call home. Sitting there smothered by a fossil of problems, she knew what await her once she stepped outside of her car.
Every night, Lily would stand outside her car and stare at the infinite piles of dog shit that surrounded the vehicle. “It’s my fucking step mom, I know it, I know it!” she would say. Lily’s only suspect to blame for this new encounter of steamy welcomes was her stepmother Gretchen. Gretchen and Lily got along great.
Apparently, Gretchen got pissed at Lily when she started parking her car in the driveway, unlike her usual spot in the street. Gretchen was old and couldn’t really drive that well, and when she needed to back out of the driveway in the morning for work, well she had a little trouble. Lily felt there was plenty of room for her to park in the driveway. So Gretchen’s solution, instead of practicing mother to stepdaughter futility, she would every night before bed, take the two family dogs to relieve themselves in the little grass yard besides Lily’s car, hoping her stepdaughter would loose all hope.
Gretchen would just say something very dainty, “Good Heavens, I haven’t the slightest clue, and Lily, stop saying ‘shit’, say ‘poo’.” To this day, Lily wonders where the extension chord is to plug Gretchen in. This problem could have been easily solved by Lily parking in the garage, and Gretchen in the driveway. However, stubbornness was seen as a positive character trait for the Dove family. Lily hated being in the street, and Gretchen wanted the garage because she was certain her car would get stolen if parked in the driveway. So on and on, every night Lily would tiptoe over landmines, and every morning, Gretchen would slowly and gracefully, monster truck her way over the driveway, wondering each and every time if she would make it to the street.
Her first attempt was somewhat of a miss. She could have been backing out of an airplane hanger, and it still wouldn’t have made a difference. Gretchen’s stale green hunk of metal that could have floated on water had this silver bumper that stuck out along the nose of the car. The rusty and faded bumper, jagged around the sides, knew well of Gretchen’s driving record, and sweated every time the engine sparked. During her first effort, Gretchen slowly and delicately steered this hang tooth bumper, which just happened to latch onto a two week old garbage bag that Lily never took out, which resulted in Lily’s car receiving a sponge bath in rubbish that morning. Gretchen really couldn’t see that well, so she didn’t notice anything, and well, she struggled with hearing things too, so the clank-scrap-rip across the side of Lily’s car went unnoticed as well. She drove her whole way to work with a trash bag on her bumper. Little kids on school buses giggled towards their education that morning, sailing next to a green boat, and Captain Gretchen S. Dove spreading her junky graffiti across the roadway.
“So not only do I have to deal with dog shit at my feet every time I get out of my car, I also have to worry about used diapers stuck to my tire? You know how embarrassing that is?” Lily belched.
“If you would have taken out the trash like I asked you wouldn’t be crying,” Gretchen defended. “A little grease for your elbow wouldn’t hurt ya’ know?”
“No, now my entire body is greasy thanks to Miss Skippidy-Do-Da,” Lily whined. “I’m gonna go shower in bleach. Thanks. Oh, I heard BFI is hiring by the way, just thought, you might want to apply.”
The next night, Lily hazed home sliding through turns and weaves preparing for an unpleasant walk from her car to the house. During her drive, she stumbled across the idea of parking on the right side of the driveway. This, in her mind, would take care of the landmines, and hopefully free her car from anything that latched onto Gretchen’s bumper. Not the worst of ideas, a noble effort of sorts. She just looked over one small detail. Gretchen’s right eye had a very skewed peripheral ability. That next morning, Gretchen opened the garage door and peered happily out. “She finally wised up and parked in the street,” she muttered to herself. With no obstacles in sight, Gretchen with a new confidence, decided to back out a little faster then normal. The two cars fused and flushed together for three feet before she felt the resistance. This time, Gretchen heard what became of the clank-scrap-rip, which really was just one long SKRIEK, which awoke the neighborhood that morning.
Lily slowly stumbled outside in crabby pajamas rubbing her eyes against the first images of the day.
“Please tell me this is a nightmare.” She moaned.
Gretchen desperately squeaked, “You know my right eye is lame, how was I to know you parked on the right side of the driveway when you normally park on the left?”
“Whatever, you’re paying for this.” Lily said turning towards the house realizing that the two hours she could normally be sleeping in for, would be spent plotting her stepmother’s demise.
The next night came upon them. Lily spent the whole day brainstorming on how to get back at her stepmother. This was the night. Focused and calm, Lily drove home impatiently through twirls of clarity. She was alert and determined, and the only thing in sight was her destination. Arriving home, Lily parked in the middle of the driveway, knowing all well that Gretchen would not be backing the next morning. She spent the next half hour unplugging her stepmothers car battery, releasing all the air in her tires, and hiding Gretchen’s keys in the one place she knew she wouldn’t find them, her trunk. Lily fell asleep that night with a smile, not caring what was to come that morning, because she knew that her car was safe and sound from Gretchen’s monster boat.
The next morning Gretchen came across the sabotage left for her from the night before. Not even bothering looking for her keys, she left a note on the table for Lily to find when she awoke. It read:
Dear Lily,
I needed a car for work so I borrowed yours!
Love,
Gretchen
Lily came across the letter that morning, and was so angry, she decided to skip school and wait for stepmother. Gretchen arrived home early from work to find Lily sitting by the door.
“Was that a taxi that dropped you off?” Lilly asked.
“Well, we need to have a talk dear.” Gretchen said.
“Where the fuck is my car?” Lilly screamed.
“Honey, what did I tell you about word?” Gretchen hesitated.
“The only thing you need to be telling me is where my fucking car is.” She said.
“Well, I was on my way to work, just putting along, and this cop car came out of no where, and I sorta got in a little fender bender.” Gretchen revealed.
“You hit a cop?” she asked.
“Sort of, but don’t worry, your car is fine, it was the officers car that got damaged. I swore I thought the light was green, it looked green, but you know me and my vision,” she explained. “Well, ultimately, because I’m not insured on your car, and it’s registered to you, they had to tow it. I swear it wasn’t my fault.”
Gretchen swears to this day she saw Lily’s eyes do a three sixty inside her sockets. Lily unable to drive anywhere spent the rest of the day and night locked in her room. Every time Gretchen knocked on her door, Lily screamed for her to go away.
The next morning came, and with no transportation to work or school, the Doves boarded the crowded city bus. There were only two seats left, and to much of Lily’s disappointment, they were right next to each other. Gretchen would go to open her mouth and Lily would dramatically throw her hands in the air saying, “Don’t talk to me!” Gretchen gave up and sat there quietly for the rest of the bus ride. When it came time for Lily to get off the bus, she stared at Gretchen for thirty seconds before saying, “Thanks for being a true asshole.”
Gretchen’s simple response was, “This is a world of sticks and stones!”
Lily sighed, “Yeah, but you are the only one who doesn’t feel broken bones.”
Gretchen frowned, “I’m sorry.”
For three weeks, the two sat next to each other on the city bus. When they did finally get their vehicles back, Lilly parked in the street, and Gretchen spent forty-five minutes picking up dog shit.
Every night, Lily would stand outside her car and stare at the infinite piles of dog shit that surrounded the vehicle. “It’s my fucking step mom, I know it, I know it!” she would say. Lily’s only suspect to blame for this new encounter of steamy welcomes was her stepmother Gretchen. Gretchen and Lily got along great.
Apparently, Gretchen got pissed at Lily when she started parking her car in the driveway, unlike her usual spot in the street. Gretchen was old and couldn’t really drive that well, and when she needed to back out of the driveway in the morning for work, well she had a little trouble. Lily felt there was plenty of room for her to park in the driveway. So Gretchen’s solution, instead of practicing mother to stepdaughter futility, she would every night before bed, take the two family dogs to relieve themselves in the little grass yard besides Lily’s car, hoping her stepdaughter would loose all hope.
Gretchen would just say something very dainty, “Good Heavens, I haven’t the slightest clue, and Lily, stop saying ‘shit’, say ‘poo’.” To this day, Lily wonders where the extension chord is to plug Gretchen in. This problem could have been easily solved by Lily parking in the garage, and Gretchen in the driveway. However, stubbornness was seen as a positive character trait for the Dove family. Lily hated being in the street, and Gretchen wanted the garage because she was certain her car would get stolen if parked in the driveway. So on and on, every night Lily would tiptoe over landmines, and every morning, Gretchen would slowly and gracefully, monster truck her way over the driveway, wondering each and every time if she would make it to the street.
Her first attempt was somewhat of a miss. She could have been backing out of an airplane hanger, and it still wouldn’t have made a difference. Gretchen’s stale green hunk of metal that could have floated on water had this silver bumper that stuck out along the nose of the car. The rusty and faded bumper, jagged around the sides, knew well of Gretchen’s driving record, and sweated every time the engine sparked. During her first effort, Gretchen slowly and delicately steered this hang tooth bumper, which just happened to latch onto a two week old garbage bag that Lily never took out, which resulted in Lily’s car receiving a sponge bath in rubbish that morning. Gretchen really couldn’t see that well, so she didn’t notice anything, and well, she struggled with hearing things too, so the clank-scrap-rip across the side of Lily’s car went unnoticed as well. She drove her whole way to work with a trash bag on her bumper. Little kids on school buses giggled towards their education that morning, sailing next to a green boat, and Captain Gretchen S. Dove spreading her junky graffiti across the roadway.
“So not only do I have to deal with dog shit at my feet every time I get out of my car, I also have to worry about used diapers stuck to my tire? You know how embarrassing that is?” Lily belched.
“If you would have taken out the trash like I asked you wouldn’t be crying,” Gretchen defended. “A little grease for your elbow wouldn’t hurt ya’ know?”
“No, now my entire body is greasy thanks to Miss Skippidy-Do-Da,” Lily whined. “I’m gonna go shower in bleach. Thanks. Oh, I heard BFI is hiring by the way, just thought, you might want to apply.”
The next night, Lily hazed home sliding through turns and weaves preparing for an unpleasant walk from her car to the house. During her drive, she stumbled across the idea of parking on the right side of the driveway. This, in her mind, would take care of the landmines, and hopefully free her car from anything that latched onto Gretchen’s bumper. Not the worst of ideas, a noble effort of sorts. She just looked over one small detail. Gretchen’s right eye had a very skewed peripheral ability. That next morning, Gretchen opened the garage door and peered happily out. “She finally wised up and parked in the street,” she muttered to herself. With no obstacles in sight, Gretchen with a new confidence, decided to back out a little faster then normal. The two cars fused and flushed together for three feet before she felt the resistance. This time, Gretchen heard what became of the clank-scrap-rip, which really was just one long SKRIEK, which awoke the neighborhood that morning.
Lily slowly stumbled outside in crabby pajamas rubbing her eyes against the first images of the day.
“Please tell me this is a nightmare.” She moaned.
Gretchen desperately squeaked, “You know my right eye is lame, how was I to know you parked on the right side of the driveway when you normally park on the left?”
“Whatever, you’re paying for this.” Lily said turning towards the house realizing that the two hours she could normally be sleeping in for, would be spent plotting her stepmother’s demise.
The next night came upon them. Lily spent the whole day brainstorming on how to get back at her stepmother. This was the night. Focused and calm, Lily drove home impatiently through twirls of clarity. She was alert and determined, and the only thing in sight was her destination. Arriving home, Lily parked in the middle of the driveway, knowing all well that Gretchen would not be backing the next morning. She spent the next half hour unplugging her stepmothers car battery, releasing all the air in her tires, and hiding Gretchen’s keys in the one place she knew she wouldn’t find them, her trunk. Lily fell asleep that night with a smile, not caring what was to come that morning, because she knew that her car was safe and sound from Gretchen’s monster boat.
The next morning Gretchen came across the sabotage left for her from the night before. Not even bothering looking for her keys, she left a note on the table for Lily to find when she awoke. It read:
Dear Lily,
I needed a car for work so I borrowed yours!
Love,
Gretchen
Lily came across the letter that morning, and was so angry, she decided to skip school and wait for stepmother. Gretchen arrived home early from work to find Lily sitting by the door.
“Was that a taxi that dropped you off?” Lilly asked.
“Well, we need to have a talk dear.” Gretchen said.
“Where the fuck is my car?” Lilly screamed.
“Honey, what did I tell you about word?” Gretchen hesitated.
“The only thing you need to be telling me is where my fucking car is.” She said.
“Well, I was on my way to work, just putting along, and this cop car came out of no where, and I sorta got in a little fender bender.” Gretchen revealed.
“You hit a cop?” she asked.
“Sort of, but don’t worry, your car is fine, it was the officers car that got damaged. I swore I thought the light was green, it looked green, but you know me and my vision,” she explained. “Well, ultimately, because I’m not insured on your car, and it’s registered to you, they had to tow it. I swear it wasn’t my fault.”
Gretchen swears to this day she saw Lily’s eyes do a three sixty inside her sockets. Lily unable to drive anywhere spent the rest of the day and night locked in her room. Every time Gretchen knocked on her door, Lily screamed for her to go away.
The next morning came, and with no transportation to work or school, the Doves boarded the crowded city bus. There were only two seats left, and to much of Lily’s disappointment, they were right next to each other. Gretchen would go to open her mouth and Lily would dramatically throw her hands in the air saying, “Don’t talk to me!” Gretchen gave up and sat there quietly for the rest of the bus ride. When it came time for Lily to get off the bus, she stared at Gretchen for thirty seconds before saying, “Thanks for being a true asshole.”
Gretchen’s simple response was, “This is a world of sticks and stones!”
Lily sighed, “Yeah, but you are the only one who doesn’t feel broken bones.”
Gretchen frowned, “I’m sorry.”
For three weeks, the two sat next to each other on the city bus. When they did finally get their vehicles back, Lilly parked in the street, and Gretchen spent forty-five minutes picking up dog shit.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
My Own Book of Blues
This next post needs to be slightly prefaced. All of the writings I am posting were created during a short period while I was in Chicago. I have written more like them but these all sort of go together. It was a quiet time and I was really falling in love with the city. It was about this time that I discovered a lot of passion in the small things that I did and created.
The writings were an experiment that I did for myself. I wrote them based on a simple form that Jack Kerouac sort of created. There are several pieces all broken down into short segments. To help explain it better, here is a quote from Jack Kerouac in his poetry compilation 'Book of Blues':
"In my system, the form of blues choruses is limited by the small page of the breastpocket notebook in which they are written, like the form of a set number of bars in a jazz blues chorus, and so sometimes the word-meaning can carry from one chorus into another, or not, just like the phrase-meaning can carry harmonically from one chorus to the other, or not, in jazz, so that, in these blues as in jazz, the form is determined by time, and by the musician's spontaneous phrasing & harmonizing with the beat of the time as it waves & waves on by in measured choruses.
It's all gotta be non stop ad libbing within each chorus, or the gig is shot."
With that said, here is a taste of my attempt at Jack Kerouac's 'blues choruses'.
*****
The words are there,
but no one can see,
If they are only
in my head,
Are they
still
words -
Still thoughts?
or just emotions -
meaning?
Full or Less
Circle one, then
let me in on it.
*****
If time is so
precious then
why do we waste
it with our "breast
pocket notebooks"?
Why here - or on
that sheet there.
Turn me over and
waste here!
Atleast here will
live forever when
Time is wasted.
Time is here -
not yet wasted.
*****
To where will you
go?
When I leave -
where will
I go?
Why do I have
to have a clue
-O-
To what reasoning
is there that
I should know
Cabins, woods, dreams,
and rivers -
I shall take a
bus -
From coast to coast
I can place my
name on any
mail box.
I can sit in a
recliner and
get
-HI-
Watch time go
by - High and
Time go -
Where will I end
up? It's
as much
your clue
as it is mine.
g
u
ess
Because that is
where I will
be - Carmen
S a n d i e g o
That is where I
will be -
-O-
That is where
I WILL
BE
That is what I Love.
*****
Where am I now -
Chicago, well
not this second.
10
thousand miles
above the ground -
Airplanes
Flying or soaring
or
drifting in the air -
Ro ck et -
ing
and bringing a child's
imagination to life.
*****
honk honk
vezooonm -
screeching tires
but no end - no
bang. no
BANG. NO
in Chicago -
no pickup
or call in - bumper
to bumper but never
bumper
in
bumper
*****
My heart over
a sunset
R
i
s
ing to show
me how beautiful the
world is
How peaceful the
r
o l
W d is
My heart is here.
*****
My loves find
inspiration in Chicago.
Chicago finds
inspiration in
M E.
This is why I
love this city.
And why I don't
want to leave -
but I'm sorry -
The wind
The wind -
It goes West to East
West
to
East
But my love for
home will only take
me so far -
it will take
me West to East -
to O O
hi
to where I was
born, but that
isn't
enough - I read
and see a
place I love -
I drive to smell
it's air - passed
over the ocean.
The sweet smell
of land - and
salt
WA TER.
The water oooo
the Water of
California - or
San cisco -
Fran
where will I end -
I don't know -
I've never seen
Port LAND
But I hope to -
I dream to.
I have smelled a
beauty and I can
NOT
deprive myself
of that beauty - of
that sun
rise and Fall -
The sunset over
the ocean -
It wouldn't be
F A
I R to me.
To us.
But I may extend
my boundaries . . .
Boundaries beyond
our National
Bor
d
e
r
s.
Who knows.
I love where
I am -
And I know I'll
Love where
I will be.
This is not good-
bye
B
Y
E - just see
you Later.
The point is
Chicago - I have
to
Chica GO
The writings were an experiment that I did for myself. I wrote them based on a simple form that Jack Kerouac sort of created. There are several pieces all broken down into short segments. To help explain it better, here is a quote from Jack Kerouac in his poetry compilation 'Book of Blues':
"In my system, the form of blues choruses is limited by the small page of the breastpocket notebook in which they are written, like the form of a set number of bars in a jazz blues chorus, and so sometimes the word-meaning can carry from one chorus into another, or not, just like the phrase-meaning can carry harmonically from one chorus to the other, or not, in jazz, so that, in these blues as in jazz, the form is determined by time, and by the musician's spontaneous phrasing & harmonizing with the beat of the time as it waves & waves on by in measured choruses.
It's all gotta be non stop ad libbing within each chorus, or the gig is shot."
With that said, here is a taste of my attempt at Jack Kerouac's 'blues choruses'.
*****
The words are there,
but no one can see,
If they are only
in my head,
Are they
still
words -
Still thoughts?
or just emotions -
meaning?
Full or Less
Circle one, then
let me in on it.
*****
If time is so
precious then
why do we waste
it with our "breast
pocket notebooks"?
Why here - or on
that sheet there.
Turn me over and
waste here!
Atleast here will
live forever when
Time is wasted.
Time is here -
not yet wasted.
*****
To where will you
go?
When I leave -
where will
I go?
Why do I have
to have a clue
-O-
To what reasoning
is there that
I should know
Cabins, woods, dreams,
and rivers -
I shall take a
bus -
From coast to coast
I can place my
name on any
mail box.
I can sit in a
recliner and
get
-HI-
Watch time go
by - High and
Time go -
Where will I end
up? It's
as much
your clue
as it is mine.
g
u
ess
Because that is
where I will
be - Carmen
S a n d i e g o
That is where I
will be -
-O-
That is where
I WILL
BE
That is what I Love.
*****
Where am I now -
Chicago, well
not this second.
10
thousand miles
above the ground -
Airplanes
Flying or soaring
or
drifting in the air -
Ro ck et -
ing
and bringing a child's
imagination to life.
*****
honk honk
vezooonm -
screeching tires
but no end - no
bang. no
BANG. NO
in Chicago -
no pickup
or call in - bumper
to bumper but never
bumper
in
bumper
*****
My heart over
a sunset
R
i
s
ing to show
me how beautiful the
world is
How peaceful the
r
o l
W d is
My heart is here.
*****
My loves find
inspiration in Chicago.
Chicago finds
inspiration in
M E.
This is why I
love this city.
And why I don't
want to leave -
but I'm sorry -
The wind
The wind -
It goes West to East
West
to
East
But my love for
home will only take
me so far -
it will take
me West to East -
to O O
hi
to where I was
born, but that
isn't
enough - I read
and see a
place I love -
I drive to smell
it's air - passed
over the ocean.
The sweet smell
of land - and
salt
WA TER.
The water oooo
the Water of
California - or
San cisco -
Fran
where will I end -
I don't know -
I've never seen
Port LAND
But I hope to -
I dream to.
I have smelled a
beauty and I can
NOT
deprive myself
of that beauty - of
that sun
rise and Fall -
The sunset over
the ocean -
It wouldn't be
F A
I R to me.
To us.
But I may extend
my boundaries . . .
Boundaries beyond
our National
Bor
d
e
r
s.
Who knows.
I love where
I am -
And I know I'll
Love where
I will be.
This is not good-
bye
B
Y
E - just see
you Later.
The point is
Chicago - I have
to
Chica GO
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
A continuation- The Manx
He woke up. The alarm clock placed at the other end of the room had nothing to do with it. It was six a.m., too early for sunlit mornings during the winter months. Manx’s mother came up to his room and checked if he was awake for school. Like most days he was. On the rare occasion where Manx was not up his mother would tickle the bottoms of his feet until she saw him smile. Though for some time Manx practiced waking himself without the need of an alarm clock or device and got very good at this skill, there were still days when he would stay under his sheets acting, knowing his mother’s tendencies.
Manx went to school following the progression he usually took during the winter months. He cut through a yard with an open fence that led to a small park with maple trees a few scattered pines, a playground, two baseball fields and an outside basketball court. If there was more than a foot of snow on the ground he usually stuck to sidewalks. Other factors played their parts- girls, friends, enemies of a youth’s proportion, seasons, and time all served as variables in the morning walk to school. Never did school serve more than a purpose of destination.
Today at P.S. 118 Manx was extremely bored and had grown tired of listening to his teachers. His English teacher, Mrs. Gridge, was reading aloud when Manx decided to get out a blank sheet of paper and pen. He started to draw an abstraction of a building, yet never following a point of perception. It came out of the ground one way, and just when you thought it was going to stop- it morphed into the end of another building falling from the sky. The objects around the buildings were not drawn to scale; the whole picture itself followed no real basis. No right side up, no down side down- didn’t matter. Manx was completely focused. Complete attention to detail, little time passed in between thoughts, lines, shades, shapes, picture. His teacher had finished reading and given out an assignment for the students to do in class. Soon after the order she noticed that Manx was not paying attention. She walked over to his desk from behind, stood at his back and hovered over Manx’s shoulders. Her shadow cast over half of his drawing, and at that point Manx looked into his creation far more intently with fierceness like it was the first time he had ever completely seen something. Mrs. Gridge swung her arm over his shoulder and snatched the paper from his desk, ripped it down the middle and threw it away while staring at him with eyes that told him what to do next. Manx sat motionless and unsure except for a little irony that pulled him apart because he could never take that lady seriously. Manx had been ripped from a dream as he felt a jolt run down his spine. He was slightly embarrassed because he knew the class waited for moments like this- got by on moments like this, and ate lunch with moments like this. After the initial and raw shock, there was a still and resonating tingle in Manx’s foot that had not been grounded.
The day passed and standard procedures went as followed: lunch, recess, classes, bell. In those linear hours talk formulated. Manx was a large portion of P.S. 118 gossip.
“Did you see the look on his face.”
“Hahaha., I bet he never does that again” crept through cracks of conversations.
Manx played along with the fun. At lunch the boys were sitting with Manx; many of which would have considered themselves to be friends with him raved about the English class incident. Manx laughed and saw humor in it but didn’t participate unless obligated. He didn’t care, that was all. A word here or there about it in response would do, but it was just to please. Other kids dramatized for certain reasons. And that is why matters like this always got the best out of other children breaking them down to tears or making them sad for the rest of the day, or even week depending on who it was. The fragile Meredith McCoy could attest to that. It usually took the weekends to clear a child’s relative mentality. If the situation were substantial enough the parents would be notified. Perhaps a call to Manx’s mother would be in order from the teacher, or even better the principle. The slight threat of authority and fear of discipline can tear at a young youth’s heart. Not Manx’s. Not because he was a rebel or anything like that, but he understood that this thing happening was insignificant. He laughed at the ones who took it too seriously. He was calm, whereas many children could only comprehend the immediate, impetuous moments of life. In this situation he felt no wrong, and no error of judgement on his part.
It’s safe to say that once Manx left school he wasn’t apart of what had conspired that day. The other kids walked and talked vicariously with the dramas of school. Telling parents, friends, and younger siblings all that they had to offer. They shared what had gone on that day in school, who it was about, where it took place, why it happened-always including the embellishments, after all, that’s what people wanted to hear.
Manx walked to his nearby home using detours to fill his delight. This day in particularly Manx walked with a friend that lived nearby. Nick was a good fellow and meant no harm and Manx enjoyed his company enough. Sometimes he would invite Nick over to play afterwards. A short get together would suffice for today. When Manx got home around 3:30 he greeted his mom who hugged him with her apron on as she prepared dinner, then she asked how his day went.
“It was good.”
“What did you do at school today.”
“Nothing, kicked a homer during recess.”
“Goooooooood.” Manx’s mother said in her sweet and praising voice.
“When’s Dad getting home?” Manx asked, even though he knew it would be the regular.
“Five-thirty.” She stretched her voice out to Manx already skipping upstairs letting room for insignificant talk that need not be explained.
“I hate it when people complain.”
“Me too Nick,” Manx gave hints of slyness without all the irony.
The goal was to stretch his expression far enough so that Nick could keep up, but at the same time, recollect, and say, ahhhh. Nick would however lose the connection much like how a dream escapes. Manx viewed it almost as a conditioning experiment. In the back of his mind it was just one player game. Nick never played.
“Are you-” Manx said while pointing across the street to the gym.
“Am I what?” Nick didn’t see him pointing and Manx was still playing somewhat of a game.
“Nothing.”
“Am I what!”
“Nothing Nick, just wanted to know if you were going to…play basketball.”
“Basketball?”
“Yea at the YMCA, I think there are a bunch of guys meeting after school today.”
“Who’ll be up there.”
“I don’t know, some of the guys from class. Jerry, Darren, Marcus- the usual.”
“Nah.”
“What else are you going to do?” He knew the answer, which was watch TV or play video games.
“I’ve got better things to do.”
“Like what complain?”
Manx had played basketball in Nick’s own driveway for years. Even though he wasn’t much competition it was still fun- at least they were running around. Driveway’s, or “home” courts, appealed to Manx because they had their own unique way of play. You had to know where the cracks were that affected the bounce of the ball and the lightness of your feet. You had to understand the spatial realm of the court. A rectangular shaped driveway that had a fiberglass basketball hoop could be exploited with jab steps and vertical quickness much more than a sloped concrete court cut with irrigation canals for depressurization. The ladder, concrete slabs and all was Manx’s home court
YMCA’s carried characteristics of people unbelonging to the orderly realm society. At least the ones Manx went to. Apparently it’s some kind of Christian association.
“Score?” Manx yelled onto the court.
“10-7”
Manx dribbled around and waited for his time on the court. Games were played up to 12- win by 2, or straight up to 15. He looked at some of the players, most of them showed little potential. A few of his classmates were there, some guys a couple years older, and a cute girl with a parks and recreation shirt on. She wasn’t playing.
On the walls of the gym were action shots of people playing sports. They were blue or pink. Guy and Girl presumably. Their joints were rounded off in every way- they were stencils handicapped to walls like expressions sown on dolls. Manx didn’t get it. He didn’t know if they agitated him, or whether he found them tacky, or if he liked them- they were a staple of the YMCA.
“Ball!” A quick pass from the wing followed. Some call it the tit of the court. It’s where the three-point line curves around to the baseline.
“Swing it!” Marcus said.
Manx faked the pass and drove the lane. He jumped in the air for the layup. At the same time Darren hit him across the face intentionally.
“Fuck you.” It wasn’t until his mid teens where words like this entered and exited his lingo without feelings of regret.
“That’s the game man!” Darren shouted.
“It is if you can’t win.”
“What?”
“Keep foulin’”
“I will.” The emphasis was on the I.
The game continued and Manx got more aggressive. The ball bounced off the rim and Manx went up for the rebound with Darren beside him. Manx stuck his elbow out after gathering the rebound and clocked him on the head.
“Sorry part of the game.” It was Darren’s turn to get mad.
“Ahhh!” He pushed Manx in the chest. A bunch of foul jumbled words mixed with grumblings in Darren’s quivering, on edge of tears voice. Manx pushed back keeping pressure on Darren’s chest but never forcing him off balance. It was defensive and articulate of certain softness. In that way Darren understood there was to be nothing more.
The next time down Manx hit a short jump shot.
“Game.” He walked off the court straight to the drinking fountain.
After the game Darren and Manx strolled home together. A cut on the side of Manx’s face and a goose bump under Darren’s wiry black hair.
“You playin’ tomorrow.” Darren said while giving Manx a handshake and bump with the side of his shoulder.
Manx nodded his head down never really bringing it back up.
It was later that night Manx lay in bed reflecting upon the day’s time. In the dark he thought about the pointless things around him. A fan with basketball team logos on it that didn’t exist, his grandpa’s Rebmen’s Lanes bowling trophy from 1982 – a prize won six years before Manx was even born. There were swords on mirrors, glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling with planets including Pluto, posters of skiers and snowboarders, Batman merchandise, box’s with nothing in them, nesting families, and a dream catcher in the window that overlooked a ravine.
These things combined with a sort of guilt in Manx. He got out of bed and started to draw. He drew the images that appeared on the wall’s of the YMCA. They were a little messy but just as nondescript as the actual’s. He looked at them after they were done, then he looked around his room that was now lit. He compared the images before him at random.
“Pluto, the blue planet, meet Blue Man.” He thought to himself.
“Guy with bowling ball- Blue man with blue ball.”
“Dream catcher catch the Blue man’s throw.” He started smiling, then crumbled up the paper and threw it at the dream catcher, whom he named Sandy Alomar, and went to sleep.
Manx went to school following the progression he usually took during the winter months. He cut through a yard with an open fence that led to a small park with maple trees a few scattered pines, a playground, two baseball fields and an outside basketball court. If there was more than a foot of snow on the ground he usually stuck to sidewalks. Other factors played their parts- girls, friends, enemies of a youth’s proportion, seasons, and time all served as variables in the morning walk to school. Never did school serve more than a purpose of destination.
Today at P.S. 118 Manx was extremely bored and had grown tired of listening to his teachers. His English teacher, Mrs. Gridge, was reading aloud when Manx decided to get out a blank sheet of paper and pen. He started to draw an abstraction of a building, yet never following a point of perception. It came out of the ground one way, and just when you thought it was going to stop- it morphed into the end of another building falling from the sky. The objects around the buildings were not drawn to scale; the whole picture itself followed no real basis. No right side up, no down side down- didn’t matter. Manx was completely focused. Complete attention to detail, little time passed in between thoughts, lines, shades, shapes, picture. His teacher had finished reading and given out an assignment for the students to do in class. Soon after the order she noticed that Manx was not paying attention. She walked over to his desk from behind, stood at his back and hovered over Manx’s shoulders. Her shadow cast over half of his drawing, and at that point Manx looked into his creation far more intently with fierceness like it was the first time he had ever completely seen something. Mrs. Gridge swung her arm over his shoulder and snatched the paper from his desk, ripped it down the middle and threw it away while staring at him with eyes that told him what to do next. Manx sat motionless and unsure except for a little irony that pulled him apart because he could never take that lady seriously. Manx had been ripped from a dream as he felt a jolt run down his spine. He was slightly embarrassed because he knew the class waited for moments like this- got by on moments like this, and ate lunch with moments like this. After the initial and raw shock, there was a still and resonating tingle in Manx’s foot that had not been grounded.
The day passed and standard procedures went as followed: lunch, recess, classes, bell. In those linear hours talk formulated. Manx was a large portion of P.S. 118 gossip.
“Did you see the look on his face.”
“Hahaha., I bet he never does that again” crept through cracks of conversations.
Manx played along with the fun. At lunch the boys were sitting with Manx; many of which would have considered themselves to be friends with him raved about the English class incident. Manx laughed and saw humor in it but didn’t participate unless obligated. He didn’t care, that was all. A word here or there about it in response would do, but it was just to please. Other kids dramatized for certain reasons. And that is why matters like this always got the best out of other children breaking them down to tears or making them sad for the rest of the day, or even week depending on who it was. The fragile Meredith McCoy could attest to that. It usually took the weekends to clear a child’s relative mentality. If the situation were substantial enough the parents would be notified. Perhaps a call to Manx’s mother would be in order from the teacher, or even better the principle. The slight threat of authority and fear of discipline can tear at a young youth’s heart. Not Manx’s. Not because he was a rebel or anything like that, but he understood that this thing happening was insignificant. He laughed at the ones who took it too seriously. He was calm, whereas many children could only comprehend the immediate, impetuous moments of life. In this situation he felt no wrong, and no error of judgement on his part.
It’s safe to say that once Manx left school he wasn’t apart of what had conspired that day. The other kids walked and talked vicariously with the dramas of school. Telling parents, friends, and younger siblings all that they had to offer. They shared what had gone on that day in school, who it was about, where it took place, why it happened-always including the embellishments, after all, that’s what people wanted to hear.
Manx walked to his nearby home using detours to fill his delight. This day in particularly Manx walked with a friend that lived nearby. Nick was a good fellow and meant no harm and Manx enjoyed his company enough. Sometimes he would invite Nick over to play afterwards. A short get together would suffice for today. When Manx got home around 3:30 he greeted his mom who hugged him with her apron on as she prepared dinner, then she asked how his day went.
“It was good.”
“What did you do at school today.”
“Nothing, kicked a homer during recess.”
“Goooooooood.” Manx’s mother said in her sweet and praising voice.
“When’s Dad getting home?” Manx asked, even though he knew it would be the regular.
“Five-thirty.” She stretched her voice out to Manx already skipping upstairs letting room for insignificant talk that need not be explained.
***
“I hate it when people complain.”
“Me too Nick,” Manx gave hints of slyness without all the irony.
The goal was to stretch his expression far enough so that Nick could keep up, but at the same time, recollect, and say, ahhhh. Nick would however lose the connection much like how a dream escapes. Manx viewed it almost as a conditioning experiment. In the back of his mind it was just one player game. Nick never played.
“Are you-” Manx said while pointing across the street to the gym.
“Am I what?” Nick didn’t see him pointing and Manx was still playing somewhat of a game.
“Nothing.”
“Am I what!”
“Nothing Nick, just wanted to know if you were going to…play basketball.”
“Basketball?”
“Yea at the YMCA, I think there are a bunch of guys meeting after school today.”
“Who’ll be up there.”
“I don’t know, some of the guys from class. Jerry, Darren, Marcus- the usual.”
“Nah.”
“What else are you going to do?” He knew the answer, which was watch TV or play video games.
“I’ve got better things to do.”
“Like what complain?”
Manx had played basketball in Nick’s own driveway for years. Even though he wasn’t much competition it was still fun- at least they were running around. Driveway’s, or “home” courts, appealed to Manx because they had their own unique way of play. You had to know where the cracks were that affected the bounce of the ball and the lightness of your feet. You had to understand the spatial realm of the court. A rectangular shaped driveway that had a fiberglass basketball hoop could be exploited with jab steps and vertical quickness much more than a sloped concrete court cut with irrigation canals for depressurization. The ladder, concrete slabs and all was Manx’s home court
YMCA’s carried characteristics of people unbelonging to the orderly realm society. At least the ones Manx went to. Apparently it’s some kind of Christian association.
“Score?” Manx yelled onto the court.
“10-7”
Manx dribbled around and waited for his time on the court. Games were played up to 12- win by 2, or straight up to 15. He looked at some of the players, most of them showed little potential. A few of his classmates were there, some guys a couple years older, and a cute girl with a parks and recreation shirt on. She wasn’t playing.
On the walls of the gym were action shots of people playing sports. They were blue or pink. Guy and Girl presumably. Their joints were rounded off in every way- they were stencils handicapped to walls like expressions sown on dolls. Manx didn’t get it. He didn’t know if they agitated him, or whether he found them tacky, or if he liked them- they were a staple of the YMCA.
“Ball!” A quick pass from the wing followed. Some call it the tit of the court. It’s where the three-point line curves around to the baseline.
“Swing it!” Marcus said.
Manx faked the pass and drove the lane. He jumped in the air for the layup. At the same time Darren hit him across the face intentionally.
“Fuck you.” It wasn’t until his mid teens where words like this entered and exited his lingo without feelings of regret.
“That’s the game man!” Darren shouted.
“It is if you can’t win.”
“What?”
“Keep foulin’”
“I will.” The emphasis was on the I.
The game continued and Manx got more aggressive. The ball bounced off the rim and Manx went up for the rebound with Darren beside him. Manx stuck his elbow out after gathering the rebound and clocked him on the head.
“Sorry part of the game.” It was Darren’s turn to get mad.
“Ahhh!” He pushed Manx in the chest. A bunch of foul jumbled words mixed with grumblings in Darren’s quivering, on edge of tears voice. Manx pushed back keeping pressure on Darren’s chest but never forcing him off balance. It was defensive and articulate of certain softness. In that way Darren understood there was to be nothing more.
The next time down Manx hit a short jump shot.
“Game.” He walked off the court straight to the drinking fountain.
After the game Darren and Manx strolled home together. A cut on the side of Manx’s face and a goose bump under Darren’s wiry black hair.
“You playin’ tomorrow.” Darren said while giving Manx a handshake and bump with the side of his shoulder.
Manx nodded his head down never really bringing it back up.
It was later that night Manx lay in bed reflecting upon the day’s time. In the dark he thought about the pointless things around him. A fan with basketball team logos on it that didn’t exist, his grandpa’s Rebmen’s Lanes bowling trophy from 1982 – a prize won six years before Manx was even born. There were swords on mirrors, glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling with planets including Pluto, posters of skiers and snowboarders, Batman merchandise, box’s with nothing in them, nesting families, and a dream catcher in the window that overlooked a ravine.
These things combined with a sort of guilt in Manx. He got out of bed and started to draw. He drew the images that appeared on the wall’s of the YMCA. They were a little messy but just as nondescript as the actual’s. He looked at them after they were done, then he looked around his room that was now lit. He compared the images before him at random.
“Pluto, the blue planet, meet Blue Man.” He thought to himself.
“Guy with bowling ball- Blue man with blue ball.”
“Dream catcher catch the Blue man’s throw.” He started smiling, then crumbled up the paper and threw it at the dream catcher, whom he named Sandy Alomar, and went to sleep.
***
Monday, February 11, 2008
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Where have all the Writers Gone?
Just because the Writer's Guild is on strike doesn't mean you can't write here!
It's not just you guys though. It's me and you. No one is writing. So everyone is in the wrong. I fully understand everything with the holidays. But they are over. So, let's kick off a new year of writing. Let's post everything and post often.
We have seen some writers a lot and then we have seen a couple new writers a little. Let's all try to post and comment.
Invite your friends or anybody. I want some new people posting. Post short things or long things. Anything. Let's get the blog rolling!
It's not just you guys though. It's me and you. No one is writing. So everyone is in the wrong. I fully understand everything with the holidays. But they are over. So, let's kick off a new year of writing. Let's post everything and post often.
We have seen some writers a lot and then we have seen a couple new writers a little. Let's all try to post and comment.
Invite your friends or anybody. I want some new people posting. Post short things or long things. Anything. Let's get the blog rolling!
Monday, December 17, 2007
Untitled 2
He woke up. The alarm clock placed at the other end of the room had nothing to do with it. It was six a.m., too early for sunlit mornings during the winter months. Manx’s mother came up to his room and checked if he was awake for school. Like most days he was. On the rare occasion where Manx was not up his mother would tickle the bottoms of his feet until she saw him smile. Though for some time Manx practiced waking himself without the need of an alarm clock or device and got very good at this skill. But there were still days when he would stay under his sheets acting, knowing his mother’s tendencies.
Manx went to school following the progression he usually took during the winter months. He cut through a yard with an open fence that led to a small park with maple trees a few scattered pines, a playground, two baseball fields and an outside basketball court. If there was more than a foot of snow on the ground he usually stuck to sidewalks. Other factors played their parts- girls, friends, enemies of a youth’s proportion, seasons, and time all served as variables in the morning walk to school. Never did school serve more than a purpose of destination.
Today at P.S. 118 Manx was extremely bored and had grown tired of listening to his teachers. His English teacher, Mrs. Gridge, was reading aloud when Manx decided to get out a blank sheet of paper and pen. He started to draw an abstraction of a building, yet never following a point of perception. It came out of the ground one way, and just when you thought it was going to stop- it morphed into the end of another building falling from the sky, or somewhere. And the objects around the buildings were not drawn to scale; the whole picture itself followed no real basis. No right side up, no down side down- didn’t matter. Manx was completely focused. Complete attention to detail never too much time passed in between thought, lines, shades, shapes, picture. His teacher had finished reading and given out an assignment for the students to do in class. Soon after the order she noticed that Manx was not paying attention. She walked over to his desk from behind, stood at his back and hovered over Manx’s shoulders. Her shadow cast over half of his drawing, and at that point Manx looked into his creation far more intently with fierceness like it was the first time he had ever completely seen something. Mrs. Gridge swung her arm over his shoulder and snatched the paper from his desk, ripped it down the middle and threw it away while staring at him with eyes that told him what to do next. Manx sat motionless and unsure except for a little irony that pulled him apart because he could never take a lady who used hipster lingo seriously. Mrs. Gridge was well known for her untimely use of words she had untimely picked up from seventh grade conversations during recess duty. And on top of that she had no right to try and apply seventh graders conversations. It was just silly. Startled for reasons only intuition knows, Manx had been ripped from a dream as he felt a jolt run through his spine. Embarrassed because he knew the class waited for moments like this- they got by on moments like this, and ate lunch with moments like this, Manx lowered in his seat. But after these initial and raw shocks, there was a still and resonating tingle in Manx’s foot that had not been grounded.
The day passed and standard procedures went as followed: lunch, recess, classes, bell. In those linear hours talk formulated. Manx was the gossip of P.S. 118.
“Did you see the look on his face.”
“Hahaha., I bet he never does that again” crept through cracks of conversations.
Manx played along with the fun. At lunch the boys were sitting with Manx; many of which would have considered themselves to be friends with him raved about the English class incident. Manx laughed and saw humor in it but didn’t participate unless obligated. He didn’t care, that was all. A word here or there about it in response would do, but it was just to please. Other kids dramatized for certain reasons. And that is why matters like this always got the best out of other children breaking them down to tears or making them extremely melancholy for the rest of the day, or even week depending on who it was. The fragile Meredith McCoy could attest to that. It usually took the weekends to clear a child’s relative mentality. If the situation were substantial enough the parents would be notified. Perhaps a call to Manx’s mother would be in order from the teacher, or even better the principle. The slight threat of authority and fear of discipline can tear at a young youth’s heart. Not Manx’s. Not because he was a rebel or anything like that, but he understood that this thing happening was insignificant. He laughed at the ones who did take it so seriously. He had an inept ability to see the future, whereas many children’s mind can only comprehend the immediate. But don’t get it wrong, many elders were quite impressed with him and pleased to be around him, and he sought out their respect, at least at a young age. In this situation he felt no wrong, no error of judgement on his part.
It is safe to say that once Manx left school he was not apart of what had previously conspired that day. The other kids walked and talked vicariously with the dramas of school. Telling parents, friends, and younger siblings all that they had to offer. They shared what had conspired that day in school, who it was about, where it took place, why it happened-always including the embellishments, after all that is what people wanted to hear. Manx walked to his nearby home using detours to fill his delight.
This day in particularly Manx walked with a friend that lived nearby. Nick was a good fellow and meant no harm and Manx enjoyed his company enough. Sometimes he would invite Nick over to play afterwards. When Manx got home around 3:30 he greeted his mom who hugged him with her apron on as she prepared dinner, then asking how his day went.
“It was good.”
“What did you do at school today.”
“Nothing, kicked a homer during recess.”
“Goooooooood.” Manx’s mother said in her sweet and praising voice.
“When is Dad getting home?” Manx always asked for some reason or the other, even though he knew the regular time he was getting home.
“Five-thirty.” She stretched her voice out to Manx already skipping upstairs letting room for insignificant talk that need not be explained.
Manx went to school following the progression he usually took during the winter months. He cut through a yard with an open fence that led to a small park with maple trees a few scattered pines, a playground, two baseball fields and an outside basketball court. If there was more than a foot of snow on the ground he usually stuck to sidewalks. Other factors played their parts- girls, friends, enemies of a youth’s proportion, seasons, and time all served as variables in the morning walk to school. Never did school serve more than a purpose of destination.
Today at P.S. 118 Manx was extremely bored and had grown tired of listening to his teachers. His English teacher, Mrs. Gridge, was reading aloud when Manx decided to get out a blank sheet of paper and pen. He started to draw an abstraction of a building, yet never following a point of perception. It came out of the ground one way, and just when you thought it was going to stop- it morphed into the end of another building falling from the sky, or somewhere. And the objects around the buildings were not drawn to scale; the whole picture itself followed no real basis. No right side up, no down side down- didn’t matter. Manx was completely focused. Complete attention to detail never too much time passed in between thought, lines, shades, shapes, picture. His teacher had finished reading and given out an assignment for the students to do in class. Soon after the order she noticed that Manx was not paying attention. She walked over to his desk from behind, stood at his back and hovered over Manx’s shoulders. Her shadow cast over half of his drawing, and at that point Manx looked into his creation far more intently with fierceness like it was the first time he had ever completely seen something. Mrs. Gridge swung her arm over his shoulder and snatched the paper from his desk, ripped it down the middle and threw it away while staring at him with eyes that told him what to do next. Manx sat motionless and unsure except for a little irony that pulled him apart because he could never take a lady who used hipster lingo seriously. Mrs. Gridge was well known for her untimely use of words she had untimely picked up from seventh grade conversations during recess duty. And on top of that she had no right to try and apply seventh graders conversations. It was just silly. Startled for reasons only intuition knows, Manx had been ripped from a dream as he felt a jolt run through his spine. Embarrassed because he knew the class waited for moments like this- they got by on moments like this, and ate lunch with moments like this, Manx lowered in his seat. But after these initial and raw shocks, there was a still and resonating tingle in Manx’s foot that had not been grounded.
The day passed and standard procedures went as followed: lunch, recess, classes, bell. In those linear hours talk formulated. Manx was the gossip of P.S. 118.
“Did you see the look on his face.”
“Hahaha., I bet he never does that again” crept through cracks of conversations.
Manx played along with the fun. At lunch the boys were sitting with Manx; many of which would have considered themselves to be friends with him raved about the English class incident. Manx laughed and saw humor in it but didn’t participate unless obligated. He didn’t care, that was all. A word here or there about it in response would do, but it was just to please. Other kids dramatized for certain reasons. And that is why matters like this always got the best out of other children breaking them down to tears or making them extremely melancholy for the rest of the day, or even week depending on who it was. The fragile Meredith McCoy could attest to that. It usually took the weekends to clear a child’s relative mentality. If the situation were substantial enough the parents would be notified. Perhaps a call to Manx’s mother would be in order from the teacher, or even better the principle. The slight threat of authority and fear of discipline can tear at a young youth’s heart. Not Manx’s. Not because he was a rebel or anything like that, but he understood that this thing happening was insignificant. He laughed at the ones who did take it so seriously. He had an inept ability to see the future, whereas many children’s mind can only comprehend the immediate. But don’t get it wrong, many elders were quite impressed with him and pleased to be around him, and he sought out their respect, at least at a young age. In this situation he felt no wrong, no error of judgement on his part.
It is safe to say that once Manx left school he was not apart of what had previously conspired that day. The other kids walked and talked vicariously with the dramas of school. Telling parents, friends, and younger siblings all that they had to offer. They shared what had conspired that day in school, who it was about, where it took place, why it happened-always including the embellishments, after all that is what people wanted to hear. Manx walked to his nearby home using detours to fill his delight.
This day in particularly Manx walked with a friend that lived nearby. Nick was a good fellow and meant no harm and Manx enjoyed his company enough. Sometimes he would invite Nick over to play afterwards. When Manx got home around 3:30 he greeted his mom who hugged him with her apron on as she prepared dinner, then asking how his day went.
“It was good.”
“What did you do at school today.”
“Nothing, kicked a homer during recess.”
“Goooooooood.” Manx’s mother said in her sweet and praising voice.
“When is Dad getting home?” Manx always asked for some reason or the other, even though he knew the regular time he was getting home.
“Five-thirty.” She stretched her voice out to Manx already skipping upstairs letting room for insignificant talk that need not be explained.
Monday, December 10, 2007
An Ode to Thirsty Thursdays
Over the weekend, I attended a "bad sweater party". The reminded me of a rant I wrote in college about parties like these. It's a rather negative take but I hope you enjoy....
Sometimes in life, I run into people and situations that get under my skin. I am almost always bothered by the little things more than anything. I am in college and when you are in college you often find yourself drinking. That is okay. I sometimes go to parties and drink. I may drink heavily or I may not. The entire situation is fun and I typically enjoy myself. My only question is, what is with all the terms and clever saying? Let me start at the beginning:
I get lost in the lingo and slang of an everyday night. If I am belligerent, this makes the whole night harder. Let’s bring out an example to help me explain. If I’ve drank enough to dance, am I toasted or tipsy? If I’ve drank enough to piss in the kitchen, am I crunked or smashed? And how do I know if I’m f***ed up or wasted? To be f***ed up do I have to throw up or just piss myself? I just can’t find the line. And the more I drink the blurrier it gets. Which brings me to my next and more important point:
I know that college kids think they’re clever, but you can’t pull the wool over my eyes. Remember when we used to drink on Saturdays? It was Saturday night and we’d get crunked or wasted or whatever. Well, you guys started getting antsy for the weekend and you slowly bumped it to Friday. Freaky Friday or Funky Friday or F***ed up Friday. Whatever. And maybe this was a long time in the making. Maybe Friday is a good day to party. But I don’t know who you’re fooling. Giving the day a rhyming name doesn’t change the fact that you’re an alcoholic.
So, maybe it’s a stretch. You’re only drinking on Friday and Saturday. That’s not alcoholism. It’s just being social. Well then how do you explain Thirsty Thursdays? Oh you clever devil. You know I get thirsty on Thursdays and you’re using that against me. I don’t know about you, but when I get thirsty I don’t think of Irish car bombs and jack Daniels. I think of poweraide, milk or water. Maybe that’s just my conservative side.
But you know my fellow lush’s; I’ll give you Thursday because I don’t have any classes on Friday. Maybe this is a trend around the world. Who knows? But Wicked Wednesday? Now you’re just trying too hard. Inebriated Tuesdays? That doesn’t even make sense. And Maniac Mondays? My grandpa has Maniac Mondays. But that’s only because he is a drunk.
So we might as well make Smashed Sundays. Or why not Wasted Weeks? Just name everything in one big swoop. I get it, you’re creative. Whoopee! Let’s move on. Let’s say it’s Wicked Wednesday and you’re heading out to a party. What are you going to wear? Well, if it’s a good party, you’ll wear whatever the f*** you want. If it’s a party that annoys me then it will require attention to the invitation.
What type of party is it? Golf pros and tennis hos? What does that even mean? I went to a party like that and a girl hosted it. She just set woman back 50 years. Guys dress in sweaters and girls wear next to nothing. What the f*** is a tennis ho? Are tennis players secretly pimps? That would be an awesome underground ring. Andre Agassi whoring out women. Weird. Ganstas and hos? Good, I’m well prepared. I just need to dust off my grill. I should never have to buy anything to go to a party. NEVER. Not a hat, or coat or pitching wedge. Nothing.
So, I will wrap this up in saying that I will put my drinking on hold. I will boycott the delicious taste of alcohol until you, my fellow college students, just drink. Stop with the names and terms and parties and just drink. Go places with friends and drink and have a good time. Maybe get drunk. But stop with the tennis hos and thirsty days and getting crunked (which, by the way, I couldn’t even begin the describe what that word means). Stop with all the nonsense and drink like you lost a leg in Vietnam. Use alcohol to forget your problems. Use it as a crutch. Just don’t give it clever name and clever reasons to consume it.
And while you’re learning your lesson I will be sitting alone in my room, not drinking. . . . .Unless of coarse I get thirsty.
Sometimes in life, I run into people and situations that get under my skin. I am almost always bothered by the little things more than anything. I am in college and when you are in college you often find yourself drinking. That is okay. I sometimes go to parties and drink. I may drink heavily or I may not. The entire situation is fun and I typically enjoy myself. My only question is, what is with all the terms and clever saying? Let me start at the beginning:
I get lost in the lingo and slang of an everyday night. If I am belligerent, this makes the whole night harder. Let’s bring out an example to help me explain. If I’ve drank enough to dance, am I toasted or tipsy? If I’ve drank enough to piss in the kitchen, am I crunked or smashed? And how do I know if I’m f***ed up or wasted? To be f***ed up do I have to throw up or just piss myself? I just can’t find the line. And the more I drink the blurrier it gets. Which brings me to my next and more important point:
I know that college kids think they’re clever, but you can’t pull the wool over my eyes. Remember when we used to drink on Saturdays? It was Saturday night and we’d get crunked or wasted or whatever. Well, you guys started getting antsy for the weekend and you slowly bumped it to Friday. Freaky Friday or Funky Friday or F***ed up Friday. Whatever. And maybe this was a long time in the making. Maybe Friday is a good day to party. But I don’t know who you’re fooling. Giving the day a rhyming name doesn’t change the fact that you’re an alcoholic.
So, maybe it’s a stretch. You’re only drinking on Friday and Saturday. That’s not alcoholism. It’s just being social. Well then how do you explain Thirsty Thursdays? Oh you clever devil. You know I get thirsty on Thursdays and you’re using that against me. I don’t know about you, but when I get thirsty I don’t think of Irish car bombs and jack Daniels. I think of poweraide, milk or water. Maybe that’s just my conservative side.
But you know my fellow lush’s; I’ll give you Thursday because I don’t have any classes on Friday. Maybe this is a trend around the world. Who knows? But Wicked Wednesday? Now you’re just trying too hard. Inebriated Tuesdays? That doesn’t even make sense. And Maniac Mondays? My grandpa has Maniac Mondays. But that’s only because he is a drunk.
So we might as well make Smashed Sundays. Or why not Wasted Weeks? Just name everything in one big swoop. I get it, you’re creative. Whoopee! Let’s move on. Let’s say it’s Wicked Wednesday and you’re heading out to a party. What are you going to wear? Well, if it’s a good party, you’ll wear whatever the f*** you want. If it’s a party that annoys me then it will require attention to the invitation.
What type of party is it? Golf pros and tennis hos? What does that even mean? I went to a party like that and a girl hosted it. She just set woman back 50 years. Guys dress in sweaters and girls wear next to nothing. What the f*** is a tennis ho? Are tennis players secretly pimps? That would be an awesome underground ring. Andre Agassi whoring out women. Weird. Ganstas and hos? Good, I’m well prepared. I just need to dust off my grill. I should never have to buy anything to go to a party. NEVER. Not a hat, or coat or pitching wedge. Nothing.
So, I will wrap this up in saying that I will put my drinking on hold. I will boycott the delicious taste of alcohol until you, my fellow college students, just drink. Stop with the names and terms and parties and just drink. Go places with friends and drink and have a good time. Maybe get drunk. But stop with the tennis hos and thirsty days and getting crunked (which, by the way, I couldn’t even begin the describe what that word means). Stop with all the nonsense and drink like you lost a leg in Vietnam. Use alcohol to forget your problems. Use it as a crutch. Just don’t give it clever name and clever reasons to consume it.
And while you’re learning your lesson I will be sitting alone in my room, not drinking. . . . .Unless of coarse I get thirsty.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Untitled 1
My symbolic superhero features are as followed:
I wear hand me down clothes even if they don’t fit correctly. If I had a uniform on my superpower would not work.
My name is Milo.
In general there is to be one distinct feature on me at all times to cover up my lameness and seemingly unenthusiastic approach.
I try not to walk on cracks in the sidewalk. That’s more of a game than anything.
Sometimes I pretend to be blind.
Sunday’s are a day of rest, so I can’t be a superhero on these days- I’m just myself.
Often times I will disagree with conservative politics. But I’ll drive a Ford.
I’ll buy stock in The Longaberger Company and sell their baskets door to door and not even ask for money in exchange, only donations, because I love the baskets so much.
I’ll partake in a monthly book clubs that only reads romantic novels.
On the back of my Ford truck I will have bumper stickers. They will read: 1 cross + 2 nails = Forgiveness…I’m 59% pussycat And 49% Bitch, Don’t push it…It takes a lot of balls to golf Like I do…If God Didn’t want us to eat animals, he wouldn’t have made em’ out of meat!…Asshole not just a word a lifestyle…Gun control means using both hands…and finally (I made this one up) hippies ruin grass.
I will go to the democratic convention with a tide eyed grateful dead T-shirt (hand me down of course) and talk about supporting the war.
I will try and use my car door remote to open up doors and set alarms off at the office building I work at.
The European cut Speedo is my preferred beach wear attire.
As often I possible I will make Boyz II Men references-that no one else will get.
I will offer candy to little kids only to be rejected because all I give out is black licorice, banana runts, and the occasional bit o’ honey.
My diet consists of mostly green beans and pears.
My favorite past time is watching highlights of the 1995 Cleveland Indians, in particularly Kenny Lofton’s steal from second base to home on a wild pitch from Randy Johnson in Game 6 of the ALCS.
Whenever anyone asks me if I’ve heard of the television show Seinfeld I’ll just say no and cite my 8th grade D.A.R.E. program leader officer Bob.
I’ll get into all of my favorite concerts for free using a fake CIA badge. If the bouncer asks why I must go in I’ll tell him that if I don’t the band will not play. If he still doesn’t believe me than I’ll call the police.
I wear hand me down clothes even if they don’t fit correctly. If I had a uniform on my superpower would not work.
My name is Milo.
In general there is to be one distinct feature on me at all times to cover up my lameness and seemingly unenthusiastic approach.
I try not to walk on cracks in the sidewalk. That’s more of a game than anything.
Sometimes I pretend to be blind.
Sunday’s are a day of rest, so I can’t be a superhero on these days- I’m just myself.
Often times I will disagree with conservative politics. But I’ll drive a Ford.
I’ll buy stock in The Longaberger Company and sell their baskets door to door and not even ask for money in exchange, only donations, because I love the baskets so much.
I’ll partake in a monthly book clubs that only reads romantic novels.
On the back of my Ford truck I will have bumper stickers. They will read: 1 cross + 2 nails = Forgiveness…I’m 59% pussycat And 49% Bitch, Don’t push it…It takes a lot of balls to golf Like I do…If God Didn’t want us to eat animals, he wouldn’t have made em’ out of meat!…Asshole not just a word a lifestyle…Gun control means using both hands…and finally (I made this one up) hippies ruin grass.
I will go to the democratic convention with a tide eyed grateful dead T-shirt (hand me down of course) and talk about supporting the war.
I will try and use my car door remote to open up doors and set alarms off at the office building I work at.
The European cut Speedo is my preferred beach wear attire.
As often I possible I will make Boyz II Men references-that no one else will get.
I will offer candy to little kids only to be rejected because all I give out is black licorice, banana runts, and the occasional bit o’ honey.
My diet consists of mostly green beans and pears.
My favorite past time is watching highlights of the 1995 Cleveland Indians, in particularly Kenny Lofton’s steal from second base to home on a wild pitch from Randy Johnson in Game 6 of the ALCS.
Whenever anyone asks me if I’ve heard of the television show Seinfeld I’ll just say no and cite my 8th grade D.A.R.E. program leader officer Bob.
I’ll get into all of my favorite concerts for free using a fake CIA badge. If the bouncer asks why I must go in I’ll tell him that if I don’t the band will not play. If he still doesn’t believe me than I’ll call the police.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
