That's what I saw on a bumper sticker on the back of a car today. “Proud Parent of an Accelerated Reader.” I actually had to think about that for a second, because at first those words didn't seem to have any meaning. Obviously in this context, “accelerated” means at a level above some sort of national average, but then that's not the word that confused me. It was the word “proud.” I just don't see how that would be a matter of pride.
Now, I'm all for reading, I think reading is kick ass. You're reading right now, and for that, I love you. Seriously, reading is totally great, and being good at reading is important. But is it really something to be proud of? It seems to me that as a kid I was only peripherally aware of so-called reading levels. I guess people made kind of a big deal out of it, but I just really didn't care. I never knew what level I read at, because I was more concerned with what I was reading.
After all, who cares how well a child can read if he goes on to read is fucking terrible? What if that little fucker goes on to read Twilight? Or anything by Dan Brown? Are you still going to be proud of that little dipshit? Your skill at reading is completely meaningless unless you can read something fucking decent.
It's all part of a very disturbing and disgusting trend developing in places of learning. Primary education has always been and will always be an utter waste of time, but this goes to something deeper. It seems the further we go, the more our schools want to do their best to protect children from accidentally learning something. The objective becomes not to actually learn, but to be able to pretend well enough to fake it. Lessons are not an experience, but an outline for what will be on the test. SAT training consists mostly of pattern recognition, even going so far as to identify what is statistically the most likely response should the student be completely stumped and need to outright guess. All of this to then find out that all these skills you've developed for beating the system you will never get a chance to use again. It's a bit like training to play basketball by memorizing the specifications of the court.
Not to mention how these supposed halls of knowledge consistently reward ignorance. You have grades where you either get a check, a check plus, or a check minus, and they're all pretty much the same thing. You put in some amount of effort, and no matter how small, it will be acknowledged. You have participation trophies, where everyone involved is a winner. You have student of the month awards that everybody has to win at least once. I remember they had this policy when I was in fifth grade, and because I was so rebellious against their bullshit, they almost didn't even give me one. Almost. The bastards didn't even have the balls to withhold their own meaningless award from me. And believe me, I made life hell for the administrators of that school, though that is a story for a different time.
And then we come to tonight, when I almost stormed out of my research methods class at ITT. The teacher was yelling at us because we hadn't managed to correctly interpret the cryptic syntax of his crazy description on the syllabus. We had each done the assignment to the best of the ability using common sense, but because it was missing one insignificant formatting element, he had a fucking conniption. So I started yelling back, that he didn't have a right to talk to us, a room full of adults who were in his class of our own agency, like we were naughty children. I would have walked out too, except that then he kind of relented, and tried to defuse the situation with a joke, and though it didn't really satisfy my complaint it made it kind of awkward for me to leave.
Then while driving home and still kind of seething about it, I saw that stupid fucking bumper sticker, and it seemed to sort of encapsulate everything. Because even though I hate that class and everything it stands for, I am still acing it effortlessly. I suppose when you set the bar so low that a one-legged dog could roll right over it, you feel justified in treating your students like children. I come from the first generation to witness the society-destroying horror of the participation trophy, but at least back then it was confined to the education system. Now it's starting to seep through into the real world, and that's scary. Are we setting ourselves up for a world where it doesn't matter whether or not you try, as long as you put in the time? I suppose you can argue that for most corporate workers, we're already there.
Damn it, trying matters! Don't you see that without doing our best, we're just going to have to settle for mediocre in every aspect of our lives? We're training an entire generation to just give up on what they believe in!
Oh, whatever. I don't care anymore.
Showing posts with label boring life stuff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label boring life stuff. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Thursday, December 11, 2008
The following was written during tonight's class on my cell phone. Be warned, I wrote it while incredibly bored and severely depressed, and as a result I cannot be held accountable for its contents (which is to say, I don't really remember what I wrote). The post picks up about 2 hours into a mind-numbingly boring class, and covers the remaining two and a half hours. Be aware that it probably contains several typos, as those keys are just so damn small, and there are large gaps in time between entries. I have no explanation for these, perhaps I passed out. Now, as further ado would severely impact the tone of the raw, unfiltered crazy, here it is.
MOBILE POST BEGINS HERE
This is a post written on a cell phone.
Why am I writing on a cell phone? Have I forgotten the spacious luxury of a full sized keyboard, and chosen instead the clicky resistance of a tiny array of lettered Tic Tacs? Well, what say you?
Oh, right, those were rhetorical. Please accept my apologies. At any rate, I am pecking away at this tiny keyboard because the fellow at the head of the room who fancies himself an instructor is droning on about the importance of electronic mail. Were you aware of it, dear reader, that mail can be sent over the internet now? Fascinating, is it not?
If it were, I would not be rambling away on my phone.
I have just turned the page in my instructional textbook, and there is an illustration of a cell phone. You might consider that ironic, were you to concentrate on it really hard while bashing your head into a wall. Here I am, concentrating vigorously on a cell phone while inches away, a photograph of a cell phone. And the physical cell phone, the one that exists in the real world, the one I am madly clicking away at, doesn't look anything like the depicted cell phone. I look at the inside cover, and there lies the answer: copyright 1988.
Side note: it took me about 90 seconds to figure out how to type the colon.
Additional side note: I had originally phrased that sentence, "enter the colon," but quickly thought better of it.
What was I talking about again? I could scroll up and check, but on this phone that operation could take the better part of an hour. Guess there's no turning back now, nowhere to go but forward.
This could be a good thing. It's a chance to be spontaneous, real stream of consciousness stuff, without having to stop be slave to constraints like format or grammar (not that I give half a shit about that stuff anyway, but this way, I can be totally shitless).
So, let's do this in a combination stream-of-consciousness/live-blog style. Which I believe may look a little something like this:
8:00 PM
I discover a new level of boredom, having endured this tedium for over two hours.
See that? That's a dead honest timestamp right there. It just so happens that it is exactly 8 pm right now. Crazy, right? Yeah, I know.
8:01 PM
Christ, how long will this go on?
Okay, maybe I should wait a little longer between updates. I'll try listening to the guy for a little while, maybe he's actually saying something interesting now.
8:05 PM
Nope.
He's explaining automated phone systems. And he just brought up those stupid ATT ads with the voicemail personas. God, I hate those. And he just brought them up as being something of actual relevance to network administration. Oh, you want to make sure you're reachable on the phone? Really? I did not know that, thanks for bringing in the stunning real life experience.
8:10 PM
Netscape? You're talking about Netscape? Does it even still exist?
8:11 PM
No one else in the class can say for sure if Netscape is still around. Maybe I could look it up if he hadn't PULLED THE GODDAMN NETWORK CABLE out of the switch, depriving the entire room of Internet access. What a dick.
8:14 PM
Next scheduled break is at 8:38. Maybe I can sneak in a quick nap until then.
I just realized that this doesn't really qualify as a live-blog, because I'm not updating it in real time; I am going to upload the whole thing when I get home.
8:18 PM
I spend another way-too-long amount of time hunting for the semi-colon.
8:20 PM
Hey, I wonder if this phone has an interrobang!
8:21 PM
Sadly, it does not. Why the fuck doesn't it?!
Do me a favor, squint your eyes at that last bit of punctuation, and let's pretend it's an interrobang.
Mmmmm, pretending... Amazing, isn't it? That phantom interrobang? Doesn't it just stare directly into your soul? DOESN'T IT?!
8:27 PM
11 minutes to go. Then I can set off the device, and it will exterminate them all.
EXTERMINATE!
EXTERMINATE!
EXTERMINATE!
Can you believe I actually had to type that up all three times? My phone has no copy and paste function.
8:30 PM
:-(
8:31 PM
I've got to think! What would Douglas Adams do in this situation, if he were still alive?
Answer: he would probably blog about it.
8:32 PM
:-(
8:35 PM
I need more Doctor Who references.
Here's one: my short, portly teacher may in fact be a Sontaran.
8:37 PM
One more minute!
8:38 PM
Booyah!
8:56 PM
I feel better now. Over the break I smoked two joints (Full disclosure: no I didn't. That was fictional.), and now I'm feeling fine.
9:01 PM
Some idiot has started randomly pulling cables out of the patch panel, resulting in the physical manifestation of an administrator's nightmare. Nice job, dumbass, bringing about the networking equivalent of hell on earth.
9:29 PM
Hm, an hour left and we still haven't started the lab. Doesn't look like we're going to get to it. And now that I think about it, my teacher is most likely a Rutan spy in semi-Sontaran shape. Probably so that he can lure out Sontaran sympathizers and burn out their insides with the raw energy of his true form.
10:21 PM
I can finally go home now.
FINAL THOUGHT: "At least the screaming of infants drowns out the moans of the dead."
-Idly scribbled on a piece of scrap paper at some point during the tedium.
I don't remember writing it, but it's in my handwriting, so I must have.
END MOBILE POST
MOBILE POST BEGINS HERE
This is a post written on a cell phone.
Why am I writing on a cell phone? Have I forgotten the spacious luxury of a full sized keyboard, and chosen instead the clicky resistance of a tiny array of lettered Tic Tacs? Well, what say you?
Oh, right, those were rhetorical. Please accept my apologies. At any rate, I am pecking away at this tiny keyboard because the fellow at the head of the room who fancies himself an instructor is droning on about the importance of electronic mail. Were you aware of it, dear reader, that mail can be sent over the internet now? Fascinating, is it not?
If it were, I would not be rambling away on my phone.
I have just turned the page in my instructional textbook, and there is an illustration of a cell phone. You might consider that ironic, were you to concentrate on it really hard while bashing your head into a wall. Here I am, concentrating vigorously on a cell phone while inches away, a photograph of a cell phone. And the physical cell phone, the one that exists in the real world, the one I am madly clicking away at, doesn't look anything like the depicted cell phone. I look at the inside cover, and there lies the answer: copyright 1988.
Side note: it took me about 90 seconds to figure out how to type the colon.
Additional side note: I had originally phrased that sentence, "enter the colon," but quickly thought better of it.
What was I talking about again? I could scroll up and check, but on this phone that operation could take the better part of an hour. Guess there's no turning back now, nowhere to go but forward.
This could be a good thing. It's a chance to be spontaneous, real stream of consciousness stuff, without having to stop be slave to constraints like format or grammar (not that I give half a shit about that stuff anyway, but this way, I can be totally shitless).
So, let's do this in a combination stream-of-consciousness/live-blog style. Which I believe may look a little something like this:
8:00 PM
I discover a new level of boredom, having endured this tedium for over two hours.
See that? That's a dead honest timestamp right there. It just so happens that it is exactly 8 pm right now. Crazy, right? Yeah, I know.
8:01 PM
Christ, how long will this go on?
Okay, maybe I should wait a little longer between updates. I'll try listening to the guy for a little while, maybe he's actually saying something interesting now.
8:05 PM
Nope.
He's explaining automated phone systems. And he just brought up those stupid ATT ads with the voicemail personas. God, I hate those. And he just brought them up as being something of actual relevance to network administration. Oh, you want to make sure you're reachable on the phone? Really? I did not know that, thanks for bringing in the stunning real life experience.
8:10 PM
Netscape? You're talking about Netscape? Does it even still exist?
8:11 PM
No one else in the class can say for sure if Netscape is still around. Maybe I could look it up if he hadn't PULLED THE GODDAMN NETWORK CABLE out of the switch, depriving the entire room of Internet access. What a dick.
8:14 PM
Next scheduled break is at 8:38. Maybe I can sneak in a quick nap until then.
I just realized that this doesn't really qualify as a live-blog, because I'm not updating it in real time; I am going to upload the whole thing when I get home.
8:18 PM
I spend another way-too-long amount of time hunting for the semi-colon.
8:20 PM
Hey, I wonder if this phone has an interrobang!
8:21 PM
Sadly, it does not. Why the fuck doesn't it?!
Do me a favor, squint your eyes at that last bit of punctuation, and let's pretend it's an interrobang.
Mmmmm, pretending... Amazing, isn't it? That phantom interrobang? Doesn't it just stare directly into your soul? DOESN'T IT?!
8:27 PM
11 minutes to go. Then I can set off the device, and it will exterminate them all.
EXTERMINATE!
EXTERMINATE!
EXTERMINATE!
Can you believe I actually had to type that up all three times? My phone has no copy and paste function.
8:30 PM
:-(
8:31 PM
I've got to think! What would Douglas Adams do in this situation, if he were still alive?
Answer: he would probably blog about it.
8:32 PM
:-(
8:35 PM
I need more Doctor Who references.
Here's one: my short, portly teacher may in fact be a Sontaran.
8:37 PM
One more minute!
8:38 PM
Booyah!
8:56 PM
I feel better now. Over the break I smoked two joints (Full disclosure: no I didn't. That was fictional.), and now I'm feeling fine.
9:01 PM
Some idiot has started randomly pulling cables out of the patch panel, resulting in the physical manifestation of an administrator's nightmare. Nice job, dumbass, bringing about the networking equivalent of hell on earth.
9:29 PM
Hm, an hour left and we still haven't started the lab. Doesn't look like we're going to get to it. And now that I think about it, my teacher is most likely a Rutan spy in semi-Sontaran shape. Probably so that he can lure out Sontaran sympathizers and burn out their insides with the raw energy of his true form.
10:21 PM
I can finally go home now.
FINAL THOUGHT: "At least the screaming of infants drowns out the moans of the dead."
-Idly scribbled on a piece of scrap paper at some point during the tedium.
I don't remember writing it, but it's in my handwriting, so I must have.
END MOBILE POST
Sunday, November 30, 2008
An Heavenly Encounter
Attention Internets: This very night I was visited by our lord and savior Jesus Christ. I was sleeping, and all of a sudden there was a bright light and a choir of angels, and Jesus was standing right there in my bedroom. Luckily, I had a tape recorder by my bed (it came with my review copy of Bioshock), and I was able to capture our entire conversation. Here is the transcript of that meeting:
ME
Jesus Christ!
JESUS
Sup, bro?
ME
Um, nothing much. What’s up with you, Jesus?
JESUS
I’m chill, man. You know, takin’ it easy.
ME
Um, what are you doing here, Jesus?
JESUS
I’ve come to help you out, bro. Show you the way, and shit. Teach you how to live your life, you dig?
ME
Okay... Sure, tell me how I should live my life.
JESUS
You should never be a dick to anyone, man. Just, like, be cool to people. Be a nice guy, like, help old ladies across the street and shit. You know, shit like that.
ME
So, you came into my room in the middle of the night, to tell me to be nice to people?
JESUS
Yeah, man, the good works and shit.
ME
You know, Jesus, I kind of already knew that.
JESUS
Oh, shit man, sorry, my bad. I should have known you’d have your shit together. Fuck, I’m sorry, bro.
ME
It’s okay, Jesus.
JESUS
Naw, man, I was like serious out of line. I crossed a line, I’m so sorry, dude.
ME
Dude, you couldn’t have known. I mean, you’ve been dead for like two thousand years.
JESUS
Aw, buzzkill, man. Are you serious? Am I really all corpsed up?
ME
Yeah, they nailed you to a piece of wood.
JESUS
Oh shit, yeah, I remember that shit now. That was a bad fuckin’ day, you know?
ME
That’s gotta be unpleasant.
JESUS
Shit. Well hey, man, if you already know all that shit, does that mean you’re gonna join my church?
ME
Which one is yours?
JESUS
Fuck, I can’t remember that shit, man. Ummm... Scientology?
ME
Scientology, really?
JESUS
I don’t know, man. I think it starts with an “S.” Or maybe it was an “F.” Ah fuck it, my church is full of assholes anyway, you probably wouldn’t like it.
ME
You’re probably right.
JESUS
Well, bro, I guess I should be going. Get some fucking sleep, man. Oh, and hey, hit me up sometime. We’ll rock some mad ping pong.
ME
Jesus, I am terrible at ping pong.
JESUS
Shit man, me too. I don’t even know why I fucking like it so much.
At this point Jesus laughs for about two minutes, nonstop. Seriously.
JESUS
Hey, you got my cell number?
ME
No, Jesus, I don’t think I do.
JESUS
Hold on a sec.
(he pats down his robe)
Ah, fuck! Where the hell is that shit? Man, I hate this fucking robe. Shit is always falling out of it. Not cool.
ME
I’m sorry, Jesus. Maybe you should buy a pair of pants or something?
JESUS
Yeah, I should do that, shouldn’t I? See, this is why I love you man, you’re a fucking genius, you’ve got all the great plans. Well hey, maybe I’ll just see you around.
ME
Sure thing, Jesus. I’ll see you around.
JESUS
Later, bro.
END TRANSCRIPT
And with that, he vanished. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again, but I guess Jesus is a pretty cool guy. A little scatterbrained, but a decent dude nonetheless. Also, he smelled really... herbal. Not really sure what to make of that.
Hopefully I’ll see him again. I don’t know, where does Jesus like to hang out? The mall? Does anyone know? If anyone knows where I can find Jesus, drop me a line. Anyway, I’m going to go do as the savior-man suggested and catch some more Zs. Good night, Internet.
ME
Jesus Christ!
JESUS
Sup, bro?
ME
Um, nothing much. What’s up with you, Jesus?
JESUS
I’m chill, man. You know, takin’ it easy.
ME
Um, what are you doing here, Jesus?
JESUS
I’ve come to help you out, bro. Show you the way, and shit. Teach you how to live your life, you dig?
ME
Okay... Sure, tell me how I should live my life.
JESUS
You should never be a dick to anyone, man. Just, like, be cool to people. Be a nice guy, like, help old ladies across the street and shit. You know, shit like that.
ME
So, you came into my room in the middle of the night, to tell me to be nice to people?
JESUS
Yeah, man, the good works and shit.
ME
You know, Jesus, I kind of already knew that.
JESUS
Oh, shit man, sorry, my bad. I should have known you’d have your shit together. Fuck, I’m sorry, bro.
ME
It’s okay, Jesus.
JESUS
Naw, man, I was like serious out of line. I crossed a line, I’m so sorry, dude.
ME
Dude, you couldn’t have known. I mean, you’ve been dead for like two thousand years.
JESUS
Aw, buzzkill, man. Are you serious? Am I really all corpsed up?
ME
Yeah, they nailed you to a piece of wood.
JESUS
Oh shit, yeah, I remember that shit now. That was a bad fuckin’ day, you know?
ME
That’s gotta be unpleasant.
JESUS
Shit. Well hey, man, if you already know all that shit, does that mean you’re gonna join my church?
ME
Which one is yours?
JESUS
Fuck, I can’t remember that shit, man. Ummm... Scientology?
ME
Scientology, really?
JESUS
I don’t know, man. I think it starts with an “S.” Or maybe it was an “F.” Ah fuck it, my church is full of assholes anyway, you probably wouldn’t like it.
ME
You’re probably right.
JESUS
Well, bro, I guess I should be going. Get some fucking sleep, man. Oh, and hey, hit me up sometime. We’ll rock some mad ping pong.
ME
Jesus, I am terrible at ping pong.
JESUS
Shit man, me too. I don’t even know why I fucking like it so much.
At this point Jesus laughs for about two minutes, nonstop. Seriously.
JESUS
Hey, you got my cell number?
ME
No, Jesus, I don’t think I do.
JESUS
Hold on a sec.
(he pats down his robe)
Ah, fuck! Where the hell is that shit? Man, I hate this fucking robe. Shit is always falling out of it. Not cool.
ME
I’m sorry, Jesus. Maybe you should buy a pair of pants or something?
JESUS
Yeah, I should do that, shouldn’t I? See, this is why I love you man, you’re a fucking genius, you’ve got all the great plans. Well hey, maybe I’ll just see you around.
ME
Sure thing, Jesus. I’ll see you around.
JESUS
Later, bro.
END TRANSCRIPT
And with that, he vanished. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again, but I guess Jesus is a pretty cool guy. A little scatterbrained, but a decent dude nonetheless. Also, he smelled really... herbal. Not really sure what to make of that.
Hopefully I’ll see him again. I don’t know, where does Jesus like to hang out? The mall? Does anyone know? If anyone knows where I can find Jesus, drop me a line. Anyway, I’m going to go do as the savior-man suggested and catch some more Zs. Good night, Internet.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Wil Wheaton Is Kind Of An Asshole
Here is something exactly one person I know will find hilarious:
http://twitter.com/wilw/status/1005052946
http://twitter.com/wilw/status/1005052946
Saturday, February 9, 2008
A Curious Old Thing
For years, almost too long to count, it stood upon hallowed ground. Its predecessor usurped, a gnarly old leather thing done in by too many years of torture, the work of feline adversaries, the newcomer began its reign of nearly a score. But time is unkind to such things, and soon the champion grew ragged and tough. It had become a legend of the room, but in the end such things are of little consequence. Not in cruelty, not in wrath, the reaper came; an angel visited this gray path and took the thing away. It was stolen off in secret, to lead a life of temporary exile before being tossed aside as the garbage it was regarded as. In its place sat not just one, but two pretenders to the throne.
When at last came the end of the thing’s brief banishment, instead of fading away as planned, it returned in triumph. The two usurpers were tossed aside and the thing reclaimed its place of honor upon the rusted plain. But this was not the moment of joy it seemed to be.
Its subjects, tired of the twin bumbling charlatans that had replaced the thing, welcomed it back with open arms; but in its glory they hated it all the more. During its displacement, it had grown weaker still. A treasonous bile was building just below the surface, as they continued to honor it with their presence, while at the same time flirting with newer and better things. At last it was almost replaced, but fate stepped in to spare the thing. With two failed attempts to unseat it, its tyrannical grip was absolute. Finally, its subjects’ mettle hardened by defiance, the thing was overthrown.
Now it sits alone in darkness, divided against itself. Exposed to the cold and the elements, it awaits its fate. Will it be delivered to a new domain, until the very fibers of its being finally yield to the wretched claws of age? Or will it be carried away to parts unknown to anguish in obscurity until the cold, bitter end? It is not my place to judge, though that does seem to be the position I have found myself in. Here I sit, upon the tarnished crimson plains, looking out at another world, a distant lonely world. Its dark winds tease upon my face, and they are cold. Looking out, I cannot help but feel a longing for that master which for so long supported me and those closest to me. It does not deserve this. Yet it was I alone who violently plucked it from its place of resting, throwing it to the merciless winds of circumstance. The emptiness is staggering, as I await the thing’s replacement. Though I look to the future, I refuse to close that portal to the outside world. I want to feel the chill upon face. The cold seems to be personified by its ill will, impotently slashing at my face with all the fury of a handful of feathers. Once it is carried away to its own fate, I will be glad, but I will not look away, I will not turn away. I will feel it. I will make myself feel it.
By the way, I totally got a new couch today.
When at last came the end of the thing’s brief banishment, instead of fading away as planned, it returned in triumph. The two usurpers were tossed aside and the thing reclaimed its place of honor upon the rusted plain. But this was not the moment of joy it seemed to be.
Its subjects, tired of the twin bumbling charlatans that had replaced the thing, welcomed it back with open arms; but in its glory they hated it all the more. During its displacement, it had grown weaker still. A treasonous bile was building just below the surface, as they continued to honor it with their presence, while at the same time flirting with newer and better things. At last it was almost replaced, but fate stepped in to spare the thing. With two failed attempts to unseat it, its tyrannical grip was absolute. Finally, its subjects’ mettle hardened by defiance, the thing was overthrown.
Now it sits alone in darkness, divided against itself. Exposed to the cold and the elements, it awaits its fate. Will it be delivered to a new domain, until the very fibers of its being finally yield to the wretched claws of age? Or will it be carried away to parts unknown to anguish in obscurity until the cold, bitter end? It is not my place to judge, though that does seem to be the position I have found myself in. Here I sit, upon the tarnished crimson plains, looking out at another world, a distant lonely world. Its dark winds tease upon my face, and they are cold. Looking out, I cannot help but feel a longing for that master which for so long supported me and those closest to me. It does not deserve this. Yet it was I alone who violently plucked it from its place of resting, throwing it to the merciless winds of circumstance. The emptiness is staggering, as I await the thing’s replacement. Though I look to the future, I refuse to close that portal to the outside world. I want to feel the chill upon face. The cold seems to be personified by its ill will, impotently slashing at my face with all the fury of a handful of feathers. Once it is carried away to its own fate, I will be glad, but I will not look away, I will not turn away. I will feel it. I will make myself feel it.
By the way, I totally got a new couch today.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
A List of Things
An old guitar with rusty strings and splintered wood.
An old barn, with a single spotlight staring into your soul.
A mangy dog gnawing on a human hand.
The sound of the wind, as great hulking trashcans bound across the street.
The moon, pale and orange, barely hanging onto the sky.
A broken promise, delivered by a broken man.
A smarmy bumper sticker, lying at the bottom of a dirty pond.
The glowing haze of a forest fire, poking its way between the smoky trees.
Spaghetti noodles straddling a storm drain.
A lone streetlight dimly flickering.
A blood-stained trailer with a broken axle.
A children’s toy in a dumpster, excitedly exclaiming, “Hug me!”
The feeling of knowing exactly who you are, and then it disappearing one hour later.
A muddy trail lined with debris.
A cake celebrating your birthday, in a flavor you can’t stand.
A beloved hot dog stand, boarded up and gone forever.
An old man in the park, feeding tacos to the ducks.
A small child, kicked in the face by a break dancer.
A man, a plan, a kind of man-made river planned.
A fashionable brooch of solid green.
A certification of your completion of the seventh grade, dated 79 years before you were born.
An unread book on your shelf that speaks to you perfectly at the moment you finally pick it up.
Losing your voice, and then finding it again.
An old barn, with a single spotlight staring into your soul.
A mangy dog gnawing on a human hand.
The sound of the wind, as great hulking trashcans bound across the street.
The moon, pale and orange, barely hanging onto the sky.
A broken promise, delivered by a broken man.
A smarmy bumper sticker, lying at the bottom of a dirty pond.
The glowing haze of a forest fire, poking its way between the smoky trees.
Spaghetti noodles straddling a storm drain.
A lone streetlight dimly flickering.
A blood-stained trailer with a broken axle.
A children’s toy in a dumpster, excitedly exclaiming, “Hug me!”
The feeling of knowing exactly who you are, and then it disappearing one hour later.
A muddy trail lined with debris.
A cake celebrating your birthday, in a flavor you can’t stand.
A beloved hot dog stand, boarded up and gone forever.
An old man in the park, feeding tacos to the ducks.
A small child, kicked in the face by a break dancer.
A man, a plan, a kind of man-made river planned.
A fashionable brooch of solid green.
A certification of your completion of the seventh grade, dated 79 years before you were born.
An unread book on your shelf that speaks to you perfectly at the moment you finally pick it up.
Losing your voice, and then finding it again.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Start at the End
Have you ever done anything you later came to regret? Have you ever hurt someone, intentionally or unintentionally, only to realize your wrongdoing too late, and now that person remains lost to you forever? Have you ever felt like you were caught in a dark dense fog, and in your confusion and fear you lashed out, thrashing, biting, and screaming, only to have the fog lift to discover your perceived attackers were really your friends all along?
Today I am taking the first steps to put the darkness behind me, but in doing so, I realize I can never truly be free of it. The time to make amends came, and went while I was still enshrouded. The memories are painful, having to watch yourself make your worst decisions over and over. At times like these, I can understand why the concept of sin came to be. This deep feeling of regret, which never seems to disappear, can begin to feel like a stain on the soul.
So what happens? A con artist shows up to try to sell you salve for your soul. Absolution at reasonable rates. After all, we're all sinners, every single one of us, and we all could stand to lighten our burdens. But that miracle analgesic is really just cold cream, and we're being ripped off. Believe me, I know, because I've pushed the cold cream, in fact that's one of my regrets. And it's designed that way. They have you lie to people, that way if you ever want to leave, you have to embrace the darkness and face the pain of one of the worst decisions of your life. You find yourself trapped by an ever-expanding wall of pain and misery, and few people have the courage to climb it.
This step I am now taking, I have been putting it off for fear that it would strain some of my relationships, but I see now that I have in fact put it off too long. By holding on to my association, even if it is simply a matter of record, I am continuing to lend support to my regrets. Well, not anymore, I am ending my part in this cycle of lies. True, this in no way absolves me, but I've no longer come to expect absolution. That promise is a lie, and the refuge of a coward. All we can do is deliver our best effort, and hope that it eventually gets better.
Salvation lies not in a great chapel of brick and mortar, but in a simple act of honesty and compassion.
Today I am taking the first steps to put the darkness behind me, but in doing so, I realize I can never truly be free of it. The time to make amends came, and went while I was still enshrouded. The memories are painful, having to watch yourself make your worst decisions over and over. At times like these, I can understand why the concept of sin came to be. This deep feeling of regret, which never seems to disappear, can begin to feel like a stain on the soul.
So what happens? A con artist shows up to try to sell you salve for your soul. Absolution at reasonable rates. After all, we're all sinners, every single one of us, and we all could stand to lighten our burdens. But that miracle analgesic is really just cold cream, and we're being ripped off. Believe me, I know, because I've pushed the cold cream, in fact that's one of my regrets. And it's designed that way. They have you lie to people, that way if you ever want to leave, you have to embrace the darkness and face the pain of one of the worst decisions of your life. You find yourself trapped by an ever-expanding wall of pain and misery, and few people have the courage to climb it.
This step I am now taking, I have been putting it off for fear that it would strain some of my relationships, but I see now that I have in fact put it off too long. By holding on to my association, even if it is simply a matter of record, I am continuing to lend support to my regrets. Well, not anymore, I am ending my part in this cycle of lies. True, this in no way absolves me, but I've no longer come to expect absolution. That promise is a lie, and the refuge of a coward. All we can do is deliver our best effort, and hope that it eventually gets better.
Salvation lies not in a great chapel of brick and mortar, but in a simple act of honesty and compassion.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
That Oh-So-Special Time of Year
A brief history of myself: Every year, right at around exactly this time of year, every single fucking plant decides to bloom on the exact same day, assaulting me with their airborne flower sperm. The second I inhale the aforementioned plant essence, within my body a passing white blood cell will see this harmless gamete, slam on the brakes, get on its radio and shout, "holy fuck, everyone, the goddamn Ebola virus is here!" Then, because my entire immune system is apparently retarded, it will allocate all of its resources to eradicating this taciturn invader. Which leaves me coughing, and sneezing, and dripping out of various orifices, but that's only the beginning. See, while my body mounts "Operation: Kill the Fuck out of That Thing," a real threat will slip in undetected, that exceptional bastard, the common cold. Suddenly, I feel like I've just been punched in the head, and am now coughing and dripping twice as much as before. To make matters worse, I have a very acute form of asthma, which pretty much only gets activated during this deathly time of year, so during the thrall I will often have coughing fits, which will only resolve themselves after they've induced a small amount of vomiting.
I was planning on finishing the week with a proper post, but since right now all I can think of right now is how miserable I am, here you go. Now, so that you'll take actually take something away from this post, here is another link to a random song.
I was planning on finishing the week with a proper post, but since right now all I can think of right now is how miserable I am, here you go. Now, so that you'll take actually take something away from this post, here is another link to a random song.
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