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.

Tales of a Cash Register

Today at the Shopette, which for all of you who are not in the military is a kind of convenience store that sells everything from gum to furniture to random, totally useless lawn supplies, I realized that I have fallen into a couple of idiosyncrasies that totally amaze me. They amaze me because, first of all, I had no idea that I basically performed for cashiers everywhere, and second because they are in no way related to any way that I have ever seen anyone else behave. Now, before I tell this story, I must set the scene in order to capture the rank embarrassment that I felt this afternoon.

Imagine your local 7-11, then render it in monochrome, slap some arbitrary stickers on the merchandise that say "Military Choice", and you have our Area 1 Shopette. Then, to top it all off, it is entirely staffed by Italians, with one or two Americans thrown into the mix just to surprise you one day in the check out line. Anyway, these Italians are just like any other cashier that you could find in the States in the fact that they really don't care about their jobs. At all. I think that the fact that they, native Italians, have taken jobs on an American base says it all. However, they have the added bonus that they only understand about a tenth of the words that you say unless you happen to speak Italian. So anyone who goes through the check-out is subjected to a stare that manages to say "I pity you", "I hate my job", and "I'm better than you, even though I work at a place that would be bankrupt in a normal economy" in an all-encompassing, yet somehow entirely hollow expression. However, making a run on the Shopette is not as depressing as it might seem, because usually by the time you're hungry enough that you need the type of food that can survive the 3-4 week journey across the Atlantic Ocean, and the only hunger that can drive you to eat that food is the kind that totally possesses your heart and so.

And so, we arrive at today. In a unique turn of events, it was actually not hunger that drove me to walk the halls that a more retrospective person might label the set of a movie from the 1950s. Instead, boredom whispered in my ear that I might find some enjoyment in chewing some gum, which, as any teenager knows, only serves to heighten your boredom, as every chew is like a clock ticking away the time you've spent with nothing better to do than chew gum. Having picked out some spearmint Extra gum, I proceeded to subject myself to the death stare of the currently working cashier, a middle aged caucasian woman who managed to look pissed off and bored at the same time. Having deposited my item on one side of the infrared scanning thingy (I have no idea what it's called) I heard myself saying "thank you". Now, the lady, obviously Italian, probably had no idea that what I said would be considered strange, but in my head, I started urgently examining everything else that I have said to other cashiers recently. I can't say why this bothered me so much, but I began to flash back to other things that I've said or done when I wasn't thinking.

During my recollection, I discovered a few things. First, and I don't know if anyone else has this habit, but whenever I go to check out with a small item, such as gum, and all I have to present the cashier is a twenty, I say "sorry". In retrospect, I have gotten a lot of weird looks from chronically bored people who have no idea why I am apologizing to them. From my perspective, though, I think that I would feel thoroughly offended if some random kid decided to get something that cost 2 cents, then had the temerity to stand there impatiently while I slowly count out his change from the bins containing coins that are all within 2 centimeters of being the same size. Also, I always find myself standing awkwardly in that strange moment when I've given the cashier money, I know that the amount I've given them is only 25 cents away from the amount that I have to pay, and I want to just say "keep the change". However, it seems like whenever I say that people stare at me, like I've just said groovy, or some other colloquialism now out of style. Is it just me, or is that not a thing anymore? I really need some help with this.

Anyway, I think that I am now teetering on the cliff edge between good writing and boring monologue, so I will sign off after just one more comment. I know that several of my upper classman friends are running blogs, and anyone else who has a job and maintains a blog may not have time to balance good, long term editorializing with their serious work. So, I am proposing that this week and next week, the week after Christmas, be Blog Week. I think that now that we have some time off it is the perfect opportunity to post all of our smallest thoughts and worries on the internet. Well, let me know if you think it's a good idea.

Keep Dreaming!

I'm Back! Did you miss me?

Well, it's been about a year since I posted, and yet somehow people are still viewing the blog. Thank you to all of the people who (may) have been continuing to view it, and to those who just happened to stumble in, please keep reading. I'm sorry for being so lax in my writing, I just kept forgetting to write, and then before I knew it I had forgotten that I had a blog. Thankfully, I remembered, so the space used by this blog will not be here in vain. I hope that you haven't given up on me yet.

Moving on, a lot of things have happened since I last wrote. Jekyll and Hyde finished, and to my chagrin, most of my friends couldn't even recognize me onstage. (It was the hat) After that, the rest of eighth grade passed like a bad fart; quickly, but with a lot of noise. I managed to maintain my 'A' average, and got a girlfriend. We're not together anymore (summer was hard), but it was fun while it lasted. To say that I miss middle school would be true in the sense that one misses a slightly annoying friend. When I think of it I have fond memories, but while searching for said memories I often recall some unpleasant ones as well.

But out with the old, in with the new, as the saying goes. Now that I'm a freshman, all of that painful and annoying drama is gone, to be replaced by even more drawn out bouts of emotion. Yay, hormones! My classes are fun, if not particularly challenging. However, finally becoming a high schooler has given me a chance to observe popular culture in a new light. For example, did you know that having an earring in only your right ear means that you're gay? Or maybe it was left... Anyway, high school is looking good so far, and I have high hopes. I'm planning on doing the ACT (aviano community theater) production of 'Hello Dolly' in January.

Finally, I'd just like to apologize again to all of you for waiting so long, and I promise to write more often in the future. Thanks for reading, and keep on dreaming.