Television Deficiency

I haven't told a lot of people this, but until I was ten years old, my family didn't have a TV. My parents decided before I was born that they didn't want their children to grow up desensitized and over saturated with popular media. Because of this, I was a little behind as a child. Barney? Saw him once at my grandparents' house. Dora the Explorer? She's the hispanic lady next door who walks around the neighborhood looking for loose change. Teletubbies? Sounds like an STD that small children are unnecessarily frightened of.
I found my refuge from otherwise interminable boredom in books. Though when I started reading it was a chore, I experienced a moment in second grade that has impacted my entire life. My parents had been reading "Harry Potter" to me at night to try to get me interested in reading, but it wasn't until I picked it up off the couch and started to read it independently that I was enthralled by it. And ever since that moment, I have enjoyed reading immensely. It was the perfect entertainment: It was light, didn't need electricity, and could be taken anywhere. I was set for life.
Or so I thought. Unfortunately, my peers had not been similarly restrained by their parents, something I found out in sixth grade as it became increasingly obvious that I was out of the loop. At this time we had a television, my parents finally having succumbed to the mounting pressure (and an encroaching hurricane).  Poor adolescent me, however, was left without knowledge of The Rugrats, The Simpsons, and similar cartoons (Do all cartoon titles start with the word "The"?). It was this feeling of social estrangement that led me, in the middle of my sixth grade year, to seek asylum at the Texas Military Institute, a private school in the area. My social ineptitude was still there, but less noticeable in the small student body of rich kids and nerds.
Today I like to think that my lack of a television for the early part of my life has given me an endearingly witty sense of humor, intelligence, and a mind to use it. To my peers I am still an anomaly, and I am sure many of them would disagree with my previous assessment of myself. In the end, there's not really anything I can do but sit back, crack open a book, and read about someone else's hopefully more significant problems. 

A Poem on Many Things

When nothing but the truth is lost
How can blind men see
Saving at a blinding cost
So eagles can be set free.

Collecting the pain of a thousand debts
And mending a million hearts
Hiding away your regrets
Till the world in its ending starts.

Paste together a tapestry
Composed of never-ending life
Forget in the end your mastery
Of the things that caused you strife.

All of these things can be yours
Sufficing your soul be lost
Keep walking along the endless floors
And your feet will be the cost.

So grab the hand that reaches
From a sinking grave
Latch on to the mouth that teaches
In wisdom its words will save.

Pull water out of a pebble
And all men will be amazed
Pull aristocrat out of a rebel
A city still will be razed.

My message is not simple
Though only fools are
Take value not at the dimple
But trust in the hidden scar.

Hollow

Today, as I was walking down the street in front of my house, I saw a dead tree. Well, actually, I didn't know that it was dead at first. However, as I passed by, I hit one of its branches, which promptly dropped to the ground. Then, because the tree's quiet lack of life intrigued me, I walked up to it. It was bare, of course, and the bark was a light brown, with plenty of knots and holes. I followed the meaningless path of a lone ant up the trunk, and then sat down. For some reason, this spot, this thing, intrigued me.

First, I thought about the ant. Why was he here? Surely, as part of the incredible unstoppable force that is nature, he knew that the tree was dead. So why, then, did he continue to climb toward some unknowable goal? He must have been sent there, by his queen, for some mission of reconnaissance. Or was he a forsaken poet, one thinking blip of individuality in a monotonous ant civilization. Better still, a scorned lover, of his queen, perhaps, exiled to a dead, barren wasteland for loving she who is the mother of us all. As he reached the apex of his climb, he turned, and began the journey down. Then, it didn't matter as much, because he was gone, disappeared in a lapse of attention on my part.

Next, I contemplated the tree itself. The bark was still alive, or appeared so, so why was the tree dead. An idea struck me, and I knocked on the trunk of the tree like it was the door of a dear friend. A second later, a distorted version of my knock came back to me. Hollow. The tree was completely hollow. This struck a cord with me, and a sudden desire to wax metaphysical came over me. Was this not a metaphor for our own lives? Alive on the outside, but hollow and hurting on the inside? Can we revive ourselves, and if we do, what happens to that ant, that small person depending on our presence as a dead area to fulfill some goal? Is everything we do selfish; can we help ourselves and others at the same time.?

Then my head started to hurt, and I felt that my blood sugar was low. It was lunchtime, and my stomach was cursing me for my lack of punctuality. As I walked into my house, I stopped. I looked at the door I held in my hand and thought. Then I knocked one time. Hollow.

Love Song (sort of)

Here's a little song I wrote. I hope that you'll sing it note for note. But seriously, enjoy.

Wait for me lonely

By the old shady tree

And you'll be my only

Forever we'll be.

Wait for me never

Through good times and bad

Say that you'll never

We'll never be sad

(Chorus)

Oh, it's a winding road

Oh, it's a narrow goal

Our love was perfect

And our love was strong

But our love was ended

By the end of this song.

(End Chorus)

Talk to me empty

Of commonplace things

Make me a promise

You never will keep

Talk to me lying

Of beautiful things

Your virtue was flying

A young man your wings.

Chorus

Lie to me beauty

Whisper to him

Shirking your duty

Pursuing a whim

Lie to me always

If love is to last

Walking two pathways

Your own net you cast

Chorus

Cry to me after

Your lie is revealed

Say that your laughter

Was always your shield

Cry to me slowly

As I walk away

Feeling so lonely

Alone I will stay

(Ending, repeat 2X)

Oh, it was never slow

Oh, we reap the things we sow

Our love was perfect

And our love seemed strong

But our love was shaken

And then it was gone.

Stan

          Stan sat up, and realized that he wasn’t awake. Well, gradually realized. His head was fuzzy, but malt liquor at 1 in the morning always brings regret. Evidence of the party the night before lay scattered around his small New York apartment. A strange stain on the wall opposite his bed caught his attention. It was a strange dull purple against the faded brown paint of his walls. Looking at it reminded him of vomit, which led to further reminiscing of his late-night excesses. Shutting his eyes for a moment, Stan tried to fall back asleep. It was then that he remembered the reason that he was semi-conscious. A burning pain behind his pelvic bone drove him out of bed and into the bathroom.
          His bladder relieved, Stan could now think a little bit better. Which is why he was startled to find a woman in his bed. She was petite, a brunette, with a smooth, unwrinkled face that told him she was in her twenties. Feeling confused and uncertain, he approached the bed, then stopped. Working its way through his swamp of alcohol-induced brain mush was a memory. It was a romantic comedy, a movie he saw back when taking a girl to a chick flick was a required, twice monthly ordeal in his family. Recalling a certain scene, Stan backed out of the room, heading toward the kitchen.
          Passing a small analog clock on a haphazardly placed table, Stan realized that it was 4 o’clock. 3 hours of sleep. Not much, but about normal for his fast-paced, competitive world of Internet entrepreneurship. The truth is, oftentimes he couldn’t sleep because of his memories, haunting him always. Memories of faces, places, birthdays, pain, happiness, a smile, a scowl of disdain. He kept them all, helping and hurting, a thorn in his side pinning his soul to his limbs. Without their mixed blessing, he didn’t know how to live.
          Reaching the kitchen, Stan stretched out his arm and grabbed a bowl.  What to make? Cereal was obvious, but not special. Putting the bowl back, he picked up a pan. Scrambled eggs was the answer. It showed care, but wasn't to hard. Looking in the refrigerator, Stan was disappointed. He retrieved the bowl.
         Cereal finished, Stan walked back to his bedroom. He checked his reflection in the hallway mirror, then thought better of it. His thick brown hair was sticking up at odd angles, and his face showed evidence of some unfortunate circumstances from the party. He went in his restroom, splashed water on his face, and fell asleep.
         When he woke up, she was gone. In the kitchen, the cereal lay untouched. His apartment was just as messy as it had been, so Stan began the long process of restoring it to his middle-aged bachelor standards of perfection. His job, always waiting, glowing on his laptop screen, captured his attention for the rest of the day. In the end, it was almost like the last night hadn't happened. But, that night, Stan lay awake in the darkness, remembering the bowl of cereal.

At times like these, who needs enemies?

While walking in downtown Austin today, it was hard not to wax introspective. It was a beautiful day, and frankly, being back in the States makes my day anyway. Looking at the majestic high-rise buildings surrounded by their toadying armies of squat, less ostentatious public buildings, nothing came to mind more than the people occupying said buildings.

It is easy for us, as people, not to think about the little things that make up our everyday lives. We are essentially self-centered, and worrying about the minutia of everyday life would drive anyone crazy. However, at times it's healthy to stop and think about certain aspects. Today, it was the people. Who are the people walking in and out of the buildings? What are they thinking? When they sit in their welll-furnished offices looking out over Austin, what do they see?

They wake up, eat breakfast, (hopefully) brush their teeth, take a shower, and then they disappear. They disappear into offices, into uniforms, into subway tunnels, restaurants, and schools. And, when we meet a fellow human being, we often treat them as a part of the scenery. Why? Because we have to.

I wish that I could take a random person on a street, sit down with them, and ask them about themselves. I wish that I could see everyone I meet as a human being. But then again, I'm human too. So, in the end, I don't have a solution. It's just something to think about on your way to work.

Some (different) limerics

There once was a boy named Fred
Who got a little hot in his bed
Jumped up with a shout
And ran all about
To find that his family was dead.

I once had a friend named Jerry
Who's disposition was often quite merry
Her senses were keen
And her meat often lean
But was killed after drinking some dairy.

When taking an old friend to tea
Be sure to keep an eye on the fee
For when wallets are pulled out
To pay for that lake trout
You may count on receiving a plea.

There once was a man from Peru
Who was found with a nail in his shoe
Police dogs were muzzled
And detectives all puzzled
For feet he had none of the two.

Sitting typing these here into Blogger
Reminds me of that game Frogger
Both seem to possess
A strange emptiness
For in doing both I am simply a bother.

For any of you looking for meaning in these limerics, there is none. I felt that I had not been writing enough poetry lately, so I decided to whip out a few limerics. While writing them, I decided to do something that is slightly defient of the often silly nature of limerics. So, all of these limerics, except perhaps the last one, have a kind of morbid theme. Please don't judge me too harshly.