Saturday, October 1, 2011
Thursday, September 15, 2011
"dear you"
dear christopher or christina,
i've always loved names with Christ in them. it's funny because i was never very religious, which you could've guessed by now, but the way the word "Christ" looked on a page was beautiful, i thought. i still do. it has an archaic feel to it; i always imagine it in faded script, the name of the Son of God who died for our sins. i guess i'm more religious now than i ever was or at least more aware of my sins.
the window in front of me is streaked with drops of rain and has been for the past three days. perhaps, that's why i'm writing now. because of the rain and how it reminds me of you.
"you." if i knew who you'd turn out to be or knew you were actually a "you" when i conceived you in my womb, then i imagine "you'd" be sitting on the empty blue, fabric couch in the living room, watching television drowning out the pitter, patter of rain drizzling the windows with your sitcoms, reality shows, or baseball games. or perhaps you'd be practicing an instrument. guitar. i like guys who play guitar. i also like girls who are musical. girls are better suited for the piano. my mother thought so too, or maybe she conditioned me to believe it by forcing me to take lessons. i can still remember being bent over the mahogany piano that my mother had bought brand new, stretching my little fingers as far as i could to hit the right notes at the right time to produce something mellifluous. but my best practices echoed through the air with cacophonous intensity into my mother's disappointed ears. i wouldn't have wanted that for you.
but who knows. you could've been talented. you could've been good at everything i was bad at. i didn't understand my mother's incessant nagging that i take up another instrument after i gave up on the piano. i was only nine years old, but mother panicked, afraid the window for discovering my talents was rapidly closing.
i tried my hand at stringed instruments: the violin, cello, even the harp. but i wasn't fit for music, so my mother imagined that i was harboring some secret artistic ability in my hands. so she hired an art tutor, a poor art school student, who would guide my left hand with hers to draw a fat elephant with cylindrical legs and feet, big, flappy ears, and a snake-like trunk. she hoped that by guiding my hands along, i'd learn to draw like her. her hands were like training wheels waiting to be taken off when i learned to balance the pencil by myself, drawing the same smooth curves, and shading in the dark and light lines of the elephant to show depth. i never did. i liked how easy it was to just let her guide my pencil and effortlessly produce such pretty drawings.
i never did find my talent. but i found your father when i was 15, who last i heard was working as a mechanic back in our hometown. he was a handsome boy with light brown hair and green eyes, a high bridged nose and thin lips that he liked to constantly keep moist with his tongue. i called him by his middle name, Chris, even though everyone else called him by his first, Pete. that was special to me. he made me feel like the talent i didn't have. our relationship felt so natural. when he swept my hair back and told me he loved me, i wanted to give him everything. and i thought that it would be enough.
i thought that it would be enough that one, wet afternoon, he climbed up and through my window drenched in the summer downpour. as he looked at me with piercing, green eyes he told me that he wanted all of me and that he would make me feel special. because i was. peeling off his soaked shirt, i gave him my all.
his last words to me were, "i'll see you around." and he left, climbing out the same window that he had crept in through. the next few weeks were a blur of tears and confusion as i wondered where he had gone, why he hadn't bothered to talk to me since that rainy day. then the nausea came. and the vomiting. i had to look for him when i suspected that there was life inside of me. i even harbored a secret hope that this would yoke me and your father together. when i told him i was pregnant with you, he denied that you were his. he denied me and told me to stay away because he didn't know me. i should've known then. i should've known that you weren't just a mistake. maybe you weren't his, but you were mine.
but i was blind.
i didn't see you as anything, just a violation of me, not a part of me, so i let you go. i let you go before you took one breath and i let you go before i could know you.
i'm sorry.
even if i've said it a thousand times, it wouldn't be enough, but i need you to know that i am truly and completely sorry.
i'm sorry that you couldn't hear your name called by your own mother, that you never uttered any words, that you never fully came to be.
forgive me, please. i know i don't deserve it, but i need your forgiveness. i need you.
this apartment is empty without you. my closets overflow with pairs of designer shoes, my kitchen with pots and pans that i don't even use, my bedroom where i sleep alone. i wonder where all this time has gone and i wonder if the greatest punishment is having never gotten to have you or no longer having the opportunity to grow a life inside me. it seems that the window has closed.
i like to think that my greatest talent was yet to be discovered in your birth, in being a mother.
Christopher. Christina.
Love,
Mom
i've always loved names with Christ in them. it's funny because i was never very religious, which you could've guessed by now, but the way the word "Christ" looked on a page was beautiful, i thought. i still do. it has an archaic feel to it; i always imagine it in faded script, the name of the Son of God who died for our sins. i guess i'm more religious now than i ever was or at least more aware of my sins.
the window in front of me is streaked with drops of rain and has been for the past three days. perhaps, that's why i'm writing now. because of the rain and how it reminds me of you.
"you." if i knew who you'd turn out to be or knew you were actually a "you" when i conceived you in my womb, then i imagine "you'd" be sitting on the empty blue, fabric couch in the living room, watching television drowning out the pitter, patter of rain drizzling the windows with your sitcoms, reality shows, or baseball games. or perhaps you'd be practicing an instrument. guitar. i like guys who play guitar. i also like girls who are musical. girls are better suited for the piano. my mother thought so too, or maybe she conditioned me to believe it by forcing me to take lessons. i can still remember being bent over the mahogany piano that my mother had bought brand new, stretching my little fingers as far as i could to hit the right notes at the right time to produce something mellifluous. but my best practices echoed through the air with cacophonous intensity into my mother's disappointed ears. i wouldn't have wanted that for you.
but who knows. you could've been talented. you could've been good at everything i was bad at. i didn't understand my mother's incessant nagging that i take up another instrument after i gave up on the piano. i was only nine years old, but mother panicked, afraid the window for discovering my talents was rapidly closing.
i tried my hand at stringed instruments: the violin, cello, even the harp. but i wasn't fit for music, so my mother imagined that i was harboring some secret artistic ability in my hands. so she hired an art tutor, a poor art school student, who would guide my left hand with hers to draw a fat elephant with cylindrical legs and feet, big, flappy ears, and a snake-like trunk. she hoped that by guiding my hands along, i'd learn to draw like her. her hands were like training wheels waiting to be taken off when i learned to balance the pencil by myself, drawing the same smooth curves, and shading in the dark and light lines of the elephant to show depth. i never did. i liked how easy it was to just let her guide my pencil and effortlessly produce such pretty drawings.
i never did find my talent. but i found your father when i was 15, who last i heard was working as a mechanic back in our hometown. he was a handsome boy with light brown hair and green eyes, a high bridged nose and thin lips that he liked to constantly keep moist with his tongue. i called him by his middle name, Chris, even though everyone else called him by his first, Pete. that was special to me. he made me feel like the talent i didn't have. our relationship felt so natural. when he swept my hair back and told me he loved me, i wanted to give him everything. and i thought that it would be enough.
i thought that it would be enough that one, wet afternoon, he climbed up and through my window drenched in the summer downpour. as he looked at me with piercing, green eyes he told me that he wanted all of me and that he would make me feel special. because i was. peeling off his soaked shirt, i gave him my all.
his last words to me were, "i'll see you around." and he left, climbing out the same window that he had crept in through. the next few weeks were a blur of tears and confusion as i wondered where he had gone, why he hadn't bothered to talk to me since that rainy day. then the nausea came. and the vomiting. i had to look for him when i suspected that there was life inside of me. i even harbored a secret hope that this would yoke me and your father together. when i told him i was pregnant with you, he denied that you were his. he denied me and told me to stay away because he didn't know me. i should've known then. i should've known that you weren't just a mistake. maybe you weren't his, but you were mine.
but i was blind.
i didn't see you as anything, just a violation of me, not a part of me, so i let you go. i let you go before you took one breath and i let you go before i could know you.
i'm sorry.
even if i've said it a thousand times, it wouldn't be enough, but i need you to know that i am truly and completely sorry.
i'm sorry that you couldn't hear your name called by your own mother, that you never uttered any words, that you never fully came to be.
forgive me, please. i know i don't deserve it, but i need your forgiveness. i need you.
this apartment is empty without you. my closets overflow with pairs of designer shoes, my kitchen with pots and pans that i don't even use, my bedroom where i sleep alone. i wonder where all this time has gone and i wonder if the greatest punishment is having never gotten to have you or no longer having the opportunity to grow a life inside me. it seems that the window has closed.
i like to think that my greatest talent was yet to be discovered in your birth, in being a mother.
Christopher. Christina.
Love,
Mom
Monday, August 29, 2011
She
She smiles at you, like you’re the only one in a room full of people.
She talks about her dreams and remembers you in them.
She sends you a postcard to cheer you up.
She calls you after you leave to somewhere far away, just to make sure you’re okay.
She loves you, unconditionally.
She gives you a hug first, even after a long time of not talking.
She doesn’t break eye contact with you, not even after people walk by.
She gives you a pair of sweatbands for Christmas, because she knows you love to play basketball.
She drops off poinsettias at your door, secretly.
She shares her struggles, and listens to your own.
She doesn't realize how beautiful she really is.
She defends you, when you’re not around to defend yourself.
She wants to have a drink with you, from time to time.
She reads everything you send her, even when she’s busy.
She helps you, without asking for anything in return.
She holds onto your arm, and rests her head on your shoulder.
She invites you over, to feed your hungry soul.
She misses you.
And if she reads this, I want her to know.
I’m grateful for it all, and so much more.
She talks about her dreams and remembers you in them.
She sends you a postcard to cheer you up.
She calls you after you leave to somewhere far away, just to make sure you’re okay.
She loves you, unconditionally.
She gives you a hug first, even after a long time of not talking.
She doesn’t break eye contact with you, not even after people walk by.
She gives you a pair of sweatbands for Christmas, because she knows you love to play basketball.
She drops off poinsettias at your door, secretly.
She shares her struggles, and listens to your own.
She doesn't realize how beautiful she really is.
She defends you, when you’re not around to defend yourself.
She wants to have a drink with you, from time to time.
She reads everything you send her, even when she’s busy.
She helps you, without asking for anything in return.
She holds onto your arm, and rests her head on your shoulder.
She invites you over, to feed your hungry soul.
She misses you.
And if she reads this, I want her to know.
I’m grateful for it all, and so much more.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Glycerine
To my old friend.
It's not often that we meet, anymore, and while I do miss the time that we spent together, as time goes on, we drift steadily apart. It's funny, the more I welcome you, the less we meet...
I want to thank you. Thank you for all the company that you've given me over all these years, thank you for being the first one to show yourself when there was trouble, the first to leave when help arrived. Do you remember halloween when I was a kid? Crazy shit. Thank you, for always having been as you were, as you are; the voice of reason and practicality in the back of my head – I remember when I beat you for the first time – fourth grade, I had to give that speech, remember? I don't remember what it was about anymore, but I remember almost wetting myself and you loving every second of it, up until I got up and started talking, and looked over to see that girl – what was her name? Danielle? Dani? Looking at me with those big brown eyes of hers, smile creeping up on her face... Yeah, everything was alright from there. Remember later that day, when I wanted to ask her to be my girlfriend, and you kept standing there, keeping me from saying it to her face? I remember standing my ground, sticking my chest out, and doing it anyway... and she said yes! Did I ever tell you that? You were gone by the time I finished asking... Man, that was a great feeling, though... Thank you. Thank you, because from that day on, and every day after, I realized that you were just short enough that if I stuck my chin up, I could see past you, and into greatness.
For all the time that we've spent together, you're welcome to stop by as often as you like. I'll always be here to face you head on, and who knows? Maybe we'll go rock-climbing or sky-diving sometime... But even if you don't, I know that you'll always be there when it matters, reminding me to keep my chin up and to look past what's in front of me to see what lies ahead of me.
Thanks.
It's not often that we meet, anymore, and while I do miss the time that we spent together, as time goes on, we drift steadily apart. It's funny, the more I welcome you, the less we meet...
I want to thank you. Thank you for all the company that you've given me over all these years, thank you for being the first one to show yourself when there was trouble, the first to leave when help arrived. Do you remember halloween when I was a kid? Crazy shit. Thank you, for always having been as you were, as you are; the voice of reason and practicality in the back of my head – I remember when I beat you for the first time – fourth grade, I had to give that speech, remember? I don't remember what it was about anymore, but I remember almost wetting myself and you loving every second of it, up until I got up and started talking, and looked over to see that girl – what was her name? Danielle? Dani? Looking at me with those big brown eyes of hers, smile creeping up on her face... Yeah, everything was alright from there. Remember later that day, when I wanted to ask her to be my girlfriend, and you kept standing there, keeping me from saying it to her face? I remember standing my ground, sticking my chest out, and doing it anyway... and she said yes! Did I ever tell you that? You were gone by the time I finished asking... Man, that was a great feeling, though... Thank you. Thank you, because from that day on, and every day after, I realized that you were just short enough that if I stuck my chin up, I could see past you, and into greatness.
For all the time that we've spent together, you're welcome to stop by as often as you like. I'll always be here to face you head on, and who knows? Maybe we'll go rock-climbing or sky-diving sometime... But even if you don't, I know that you'll always be there when it matters, reminding me to keep my chin up and to look past what's in front of me to see what lies ahead of me.
Thanks.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
another day, another month, another prompt
sorry, meant to post this earlier, but first a little background.
i was at a gas station a few weeks ago and noticed thank you letters pinned up on a wall next to the mechanic's computer. a lot of them were just "dear blank, thank you for..." and i remember seeing something similar whenever i'd go to my doctor's office before i had surgery. and my mind started to go into thoughts about writing a fraudulent artifact in the form of a thank you letter addressed to whomever. it could be a gas station attendant, mechanic, doctor or something more interesting/disturbing/humorous like a stripper, hooker, sports team mascot, a girl or guy who enjoys cosplay, the list could go on. write a thank you letter in the view of a character who has received help in some way from someone that meant a great deal to them for whatever reason. think about hemingway's iceberg theory as you write this: 10% of the iceberg is shown above water while 90% of it is hidden under water. all of our stories have deeper meaning in them, let's write some that make people want to dive in to see the other 90%.
i was at a gas station a few weeks ago and noticed thank you letters pinned up on a wall next to the mechanic's computer. a lot of them were just "dear blank, thank you for..." and i remember seeing something similar whenever i'd go to my doctor's office before i had surgery. and my mind started to go into thoughts about writing a fraudulent artifact in the form of a thank you letter addressed to whomever. it could be a gas station attendant, mechanic, doctor or something more interesting/disturbing/humorous like a stripper, hooker, sports team mascot, a girl or guy who enjoys cosplay, the list could go on. write a thank you letter in the view of a character who has received help in some way from someone that meant a great deal to them for whatever reason. think about hemingway's iceberg theory as you write this: 10% of the iceberg is shown above water while 90% of it is hidden under water. all of our stories have deeper meaning in them, let's write some that make people want to dive in to see the other 90%.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Watcher
Father, I have searched far and wide for a sign of you. In my wandering, I have come across those that cling to this earth and others that beg for release. Where am I between the two? I am a watcher above a broken clock tower. I cannot move my heart and I don’t know when I’ll be ready. Give me strength so that I may find you.
Are you still there?
Sunday, July 31, 2011
last fire
i'm going to let this fire burn
one last time
it's going to sit in my hand, if only for a moment
it reminds me of all the life i could've led
all the dreams i've held
i think, for a second,
that things could've been different
but in the end, i am my own vice
i still crave that solitude
that aloneness
it's a bittersweet justification
to be alone
but to wish to be with others
and to have the opportunity, but ultimately,
this is me, alone
watching the fire burn into the night
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
most, if not all, people don't have the luxury to choose where they want to die. but even those in the minority, who do get to choose where they want to die, don't have the benefit of choosing how to die.
i'm happy to report that i'm in the extreme rare minority, who gets to choose where and how they get to die. i bet that from the picture you think i'm going to drown myself by slowly wading into the sea and breathing water into my lungs. how uninspired. and unoriginal.
please, i have better ways to go than merely drowning myself. i intend to make my last moments as beautiful, meaningful, and bloody as possible. the picture is of a walkway of rocks that lead to an ocean and i took it because this is life. we start our journey on solid ground only to peer off an edge of unknown depths. that's the beautiful part. metaphorical, no? it makes you wonder why we even bother to wait for death to come for us. if we're all heading for the unknown at some point in time, why not run headfirst into it? why delay the inevitable? don't you want to see what's over the edge?
this rock that we call life isn't as solid as we think. we think that what we see and know is worth clinging onto, but what's the point of clinging onto it when we're destined to let it slip past our grasps? what's the point of hearing a girl say to you, "i love you," when she'll leave you. what's the point of bathing in sunlight when one day we'll turn into the very dust that the rays of sunlight reveals on a spring cleaning day? what's the point of spring cleaning?
i want to cut myself open and bleed out into the depths of the ocean where my life will become one with the infinite mass that has swallowed up so many others. i want to drown in my own blood and sleep with the fishes, and let my soul pass from this known world into the next.
but most of all, i don't want to feel pain anymore, i don't want to remember Jenny Morrison anymore, i don't want to sit and smile about how she used to eat everything with chopsticks, and i don't want to hear my mother tell me her neo-Ku Klux Klan theory of how white girls should marry other white boys and how Korean boys should marry Korean girls, and i don't want to feel the anxiety i feel when Jenny is around her white guy friends who obviously want to date her and don't see me as any threat until they see her grab my hand at a random time like how she used to hold my hand whenever i'd have to type up a proposal letter, but i'd always let her hold it while i typed with one hand. i don't want to listen to more sermons about how Christians should do this and do that because then God would love us more. i don't want to hear Jenny tell me that God loves me no matter what because there's nothing i can do to please God. i don't want to hear Jenny say, "i love you unconditionally like God, and i won't leave you either." i don't want to think about those words as Jenny goes on a mission trip where she'll fall in love with a fellow team member, another white guy who loves Jesus, and i don't want to feel my heart being ripped open and torn to pieces as she emails me as a letter of finality that "she has grown and changed these past 2 weeks and feels that God is leading her in a different direction and can't be with someone who doesn't believe in God the same way she does." i don't want to cry and drink endless cases of Coors by myself watching 500 Days of Summer, throwing half-full cans at the television when Summer comes on screen. i don't want to feel unloved, loved, and then unloved again.
i want to walk down that rock pathway with nothing but a knife to send me off to the unknown. i want to die alone, i want to be the one who ends my life, not God, and i want to be added on the missing person report who no one ever finds. i want my mother to cry over me, abandon God, and then return to Him by going to 5 am prayer meetings every morning until she feels peace at losing her only son. i want my friends to pretend to mourn me and act like they can't go on until they say that "he would've wanted us to live our lives to the fullest," and use my death as an excuse to get drunk. i want the whole world to cry over losing a part-time proposal writer. i want the whole world to rejoice because i dramatically reduced my carbon footprint by starting a compost pile on my balcony. i want to be swallowed alive. i want to be reborn and to feel eternal joy and to live as life was supposed to be lived. i want there to be a Heaven and a hell because then i would know where i'm gong. i don't want to know where i'm going at all. the only thing i want to know is the unknown.
i want to experience the unknown because it hasn't hurt me yet.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
starting this easy...
these are your options, do what you will, then post it. these are also the most vague instructions i could provide. go!
Friday, June 10, 2011
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Christmas Morning
We made love on Christmas morning, to our short Christmas tree blinking in an array of colors and the star shining the brightest. She was the one who nudged me with her head as I brushed her long, brown hair out of my mouth. She held mistletoe over my head and began to nibble on my ear, but I pretended to ignore her, turning over on my side with my back facing her. I smiled shutting my eyes as she wrapped her soft, supple legs around my waist. They constricted me like anacondas and grew tighter as I tried to resist laughing. Her warm hands reached down my undershirt and stroked my flat stomach. I felt her fingers going over each bump of my abs and I can’t fight feeling her smooth legs that she had waxed the night before. I start from her pedicured, red painted toe nails and move slowly up her ankles with all of my fingertips scaling every inch. I trace her tense calves and feel her muscular thighs loosen as I grabbed her round butt and squeezed. I finally turned around as she started kissing my neck with her moist lips and I planted my mouth on hers as we started undressing.
We lay naked on our bed, trapping the warmth inside the blanket that we had pulled up to our chins. I playfully tugged on the blanket, so she would hold on tight to protect herself from the cold air, to hide her nakedness from God. But I wanted to see her vulnerable and bare, to see her goosebumps rise and then to cover her with my body, to wrap my limbs around her, to hide her nakedness with mine, so that I could take her shame. I uncover her and she is clothed again. She is wearing her white tank top and gray shorts that I always imagined she would be wearing. I am fully clothed again and she faces the window of our apartment and leans back on her elbows. Her face is blank as she stares out the window. I lean on my right elbow and, with my left hand, reach over to touch her flat stomach, but she’s gone. I look outside and it’s snowing.
I wish that she was here, whoever she is, wherever she is. I’m alone this Christmas morning and I’m on my computer searching for “brunettes making love,” but all I get is tasteless erotica. The muscular, tanned white guy who stands or sits the whole time, making the big breasted girl do all the work as they yell out obscenities and scream out a manufactured orgasm at the end. I hate it, but I can’t bring myself to stop looking. I imagine that the girl I would eventually make love to, be married to, raise kids with was somewhere out there waiting for me to whisk her off her feet or sweep her away to happily ever after. And I would. I just needed to lose some weight and apply for that copy writing job, then I would begin my valiant search. I imagine that she’s sitting by her window too, watching the snow fall. I look out the window after I finish and clean myself up. I lie down on my bed and prop myself up on my right elbow staring out the window at the flurry.
I turn to my right and imagine her again leaning back on both of her hands, staring at my fat face in disappointment. She disappears from my eyes and I scan my lonely room, devoid of decoration and pictures. I look outside again as the snow falls harder and try not to imagine how cold it is outside.
We lay naked on our bed, trapping the warmth inside the blanket that we had pulled up to our chins. I playfully tugged on the blanket, so she would hold on tight to protect herself from the cold air, to hide her nakedness from God. But I wanted to see her vulnerable and bare, to see her goosebumps rise and then to cover her with my body, to wrap my limbs around her, to hide her nakedness with mine, so that I could take her shame. I uncover her and she is clothed again. She is wearing her white tank top and gray shorts that I always imagined she would be wearing. I am fully clothed again and she faces the window of our apartment and leans back on her elbows. Her face is blank as she stares out the window. I lean on my right elbow and, with my left hand, reach over to touch her flat stomach, but she’s gone. I look outside and it’s snowing.
I wish that she was here, whoever she is, wherever she is. I’m alone this Christmas morning and I’m on my computer searching for “brunettes making love,” but all I get is tasteless erotica. The muscular, tanned white guy who stands or sits the whole time, making the big breasted girl do all the work as they yell out obscenities and scream out a manufactured orgasm at the end. I hate it, but I can’t bring myself to stop looking. I imagine that the girl I would eventually make love to, be married to, raise kids with was somewhere out there waiting for me to whisk her off her feet or sweep her away to happily ever after. And I would. I just needed to lose some weight and apply for that copy writing job, then I would begin my valiant search. I imagine that she’s sitting by her window too, watching the snow fall. I look out the window after I finish and clean myself up. I lie down on my bed and prop myself up on my right elbow staring out the window at the flurry.
I turn to my right and imagine her again leaning back on both of her hands, staring at my fat face in disappointment. She disappears from my eyes and I scan my lonely room, devoid of decoration and pictures. I look outside again as the snow falls harder and try not to imagine how cold it is outside.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
The Living Fire (cont.)
There was only a cloud of dust and the faint sound of shouting. Jacob could hear the distant and muffled echoes after hitting the ground so suddenly. He felt blood trickling down his brow, and a sharp pain running down his legs. The bones in his right foot felt out of place and broken. He had fallen a great distance, from gauging how he'd hollered long enough that his throat felt hoarse. The shouts diverged into a unified voice from above, and the words became clear as the dust settled.
"Jacob! We're going to get help! Stay where you are!"
Jacob was hurt, but he felt weaker inside. He didn't want to turn back when Mark admitted Jacob was courageous and won the dare. He couldn't even read the fear in Evelyn's eyes that spoke so loudly for home. All Jacob could see was the darkness he conquered as he held the torch. He was the source of light for Evelyn. Now Mark carried the torch, as he led Evelyn back out, leaving Jacob behind.
A couple hours had gone by and there was still nobody. Jacob lay still on the ground with his eyes closed.
"It should be dusk now. They must have told my Father what happened. Father's taking his time to carve up a switch is all. They'll be here soon enough." Jacob thought to himself.
Being unable to see heightened his awareness to the frightful sounds of the mines, coming from every direction. Steam crept up from the floor, and down the tunnel, resembling the breath of a monster, waiting for an opportunity to strike its prey. There were rumors at the docks, that the miners had abandoned the mountain because they dug too deep, and awakened a demon from the depths of hell. Jacob couldn't lay still any longer and didn't want to be attacked without fighting back. He lifted himself up, and groaned softly as he felt the excruciating pain in his right foot. Reaching around him, he searched for a jagged rock, big enough to slow whatever lurked in the cave. As his hand searched the ground, brushing away the smaller rocks and pebbles, he felt something warm. Jacob grasped it, and followed it up with his hands. It was a metal rail, used for pushing carts to carry minerals in and out of the mine.
"I'm saved!" Jacob whispered to himself, grinning.
He held on to the railing, and pushed himself further in, dragging his body. All he needed was to find the cart. If he could get out of the mine on his own, he wouldn't have to face his Father's wrath. He could just meet everyone in front of the mine, and say he got separated from his friends. He didn't even have tell his Father he went inside. He would lie about it all being a joke that went too far. He would even say he was punished already when he'd tripped and hurt his foot. His Father would never have to know the truth.
"Jacob! We're going to get help! Stay where you are!"
Jacob was hurt, but he felt weaker inside. He didn't want to turn back when Mark admitted Jacob was courageous and won the dare. He couldn't even read the fear in Evelyn's eyes that spoke so loudly for home. All Jacob could see was the darkness he conquered as he held the torch. He was the source of light for Evelyn. Now Mark carried the torch, as he led Evelyn back out, leaving Jacob behind.
A couple hours had gone by and there was still nobody. Jacob lay still on the ground with his eyes closed.
"It should be dusk now. They must have told my Father what happened. Father's taking his time to carve up a switch is all. They'll be here soon enough." Jacob thought to himself.
Being unable to see heightened his awareness to the frightful sounds of the mines, coming from every direction. Steam crept up from the floor, and down the tunnel, resembling the breath of a monster, waiting for an opportunity to strike its prey. There were rumors at the docks, that the miners had abandoned the mountain because they dug too deep, and awakened a demon from the depths of hell. Jacob couldn't lay still any longer and didn't want to be attacked without fighting back. He lifted himself up, and groaned softly as he felt the excruciating pain in his right foot. Reaching around him, he searched for a jagged rock, big enough to slow whatever lurked in the cave. As his hand searched the ground, brushing away the smaller rocks and pebbles, he felt something warm. Jacob grasped it, and followed it up with his hands. It was a metal rail, used for pushing carts to carry minerals in and out of the mine.
"I'm saved!" Jacob whispered to himself, grinning.
He held on to the railing, and pushed himself further in, dragging his body. All he needed was to find the cart. If he could get out of the mine on his own, he wouldn't have to face his Father's wrath. He could just meet everyone in front of the mine, and say he got separated from his friends. He didn't even have tell his Father he went inside. He would lie about it all being a joke that went too far. He would even say he was punished already when he'd tripped and hurt his foot. His Father would never have to know the truth.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Thoughts, Dreams, and Fantasies
I've had fantasies my whole life. With girls, I'd fantasize she was mine, and I would fall asleep to thoughts of the perfect encounter. Whether it be her saying yes to a date, or fast forward to the moment we'd spend the night together. I'll fantasize my future, and where I'll be in the next five years. That I'll be successful, working hard on a film that I care about, and afterwards, spending time alone in some cabin in Alaska with my trustworthy Siberian husky, writing an epic novel. I fantasize like this everyday since I came to Richmond, and since coming here I've always told myself that I'm alone and have felt that way. Maybe it's because I've been pessimistic all these years, or because I've been self-conscious about the way I look ever since middle school, that I don't feel 100% comfortable around people and getting to know them. So I tell myself again, that I only have a few close friends, and the rest of the time they're busy or too far away, I'll spend time in my thoughts and fantasies. Lately, I've been fantasizing of being loved by her and by everyone else. It's so hard to get that when no one notices you. So I write a film, tell people my ideas, and try to put myself out there creatively so that someone will notice. Usually I'll get a 'wow, that's cool' or 'great idea' but that's never enough. I'll want more and when I don't get enough recognition I'll go back to fantasizing.
I'm graduating this semester, and lots of things have been on my mind. Marriage, getting a job, and getting my life closer to God. The list isn't according to importance, but in reality, I've been putting God on the bottom, and as collateral. That I'll get right with Him once these fantasies turn into reality, or be swallowed up and forced to confront Him once things fall apart. With so much uncertainty as of late, I can't help but understand that God is telling me to wake up and stop having these fantasies, because they are all selfish and unreliable. My life isn't going to work like a check list, no matter how capable or lucky I am.
Despite my confession, and motives for love and recognition, I've found what kind of themes are important to me. Maybe in all the writing about being Korean has opened up my own struggles with myself. That I want to be accepted for who I am, and that looking or acting a certain way, shouldn't make you less of a person. I want to try and connect with my culture and stop feeling like an outsider. And that it'll take an open heart, and meeting new people to get there.
I'm graduating this semester, and lots of things have been on my mind. Marriage, getting a job, and getting my life closer to God. The list isn't according to importance, but in reality, I've been putting God on the bottom, and as collateral. That I'll get right with Him once these fantasies turn into reality, or be swallowed up and forced to confront Him once things fall apart. With so much uncertainty as of late, I can't help but understand that God is telling me to wake up and stop having these fantasies, because they are all selfish and unreliable. My life isn't going to work like a check list, no matter how capable or lucky I am.
Despite my confession, and motives for love and recognition, I've found what kind of themes are important to me. Maybe in all the writing about being Korean has opened up my own struggles with myself. That I want to be accepted for who I am, and that looking or acting a certain way, shouldn't make you less of a person. I want to try and connect with my culture and stop feeling like an outsider. And that it'll take an open heart, and meeting new people to get there.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
dear wesleigh,
please post some photos. i know that your tumblr, other blogspot, facebook, flickr, and livejournal are still courting you and you just can't say no to them. it must be nice to have these suitors fawning at you and desiring for you to post up any picture, music clip, or blog post that is currently running around in your brain, but i must say that it's time to stop stringing along these poor social networks and settle down.
i know it's hard because you're a natural bachelor at heart and at the same time you want to share all of your love with all of these sites, but it's not fair. to you or to them. you must choose to cut some of them out of your life even though they may bother you with emails saying that they've missed you or that you haven't used them in a while. you must be strong and resist.
i hope that this post find you in good health and that you are ready for commitment.
please post some photos. i know that your tumblr, other blogspot, facebook, flickr, and livejournal are still courting you and you just can't say no to them. it must be nice to have these suitors fawning at you and desiring for you to post up any picture, music clip, or blog post that is currently running around in your brain, but i must say that it's time to stop stringing along these poor social networks and settle down.
i know it's hard because you're a natural bachelor at heart and at the same time you want to share all of your love with all of these sites, but it's not fair. to you or to them. you must choose to cut some of them out of your life even though they may bother you with emails saying that they've missed you or that you haven't used them in a while. you must be strong and resist.
i hope that this post find you in good health and that you are ready for commitment.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Chapter 1: The Living Fire
"Why doesn't the sun get tired?" Sara said sleepily, rubbing her eyes. Her tiny body sat perched on a crate of beeswax candles, nodding back and forth. The old lantern she held in her hands radiated her pink cheeks, as her hair flickered in the wind. Jacob lifted a heavy crate into the back of his Father's wagon, ignoring his younger sister's complaints. He was up the night before, taking count of each candle, and while half asleep, he had lost count in the hundreds, three times. Sara was quiet now. The lantern sat on the ground, creating a spotlight around her motionless feet.
"Sara, get up," Jacob demanded.
Her feet rustled.
"I can't see what I'm doing if you don't hold up the light," Jacob said.
"But, it's heavy," Sara whined.
Jacob took a moment to catch his breath, staring into the dark sky. It was cloudy, covering the stars and the moon as dawn was approaching. Soon it was going to be another day of work at the market, peddling his family's goods. Jacob's Father, Joseph, had spent most of the morning in meditation and prayer. It was Jacob's responsibility as the only son to ready the wagon, so they could depart early before the sunrise.
Jacob walked over to Sara's dangling feet. He lifted the lantern, drifting the light over her body. Sara curled, and let out a groan.
"How about I hold the lamp, and you load the wagon?" Jacob retorted, as he kept the light shining over her face.
Sara's eyes slowly opened.
"Fine," Sara sighed with defeat.
Jacob handed her the lantern, as she rose to her feet. The horses stomped restlessly, while Jacob went back to loading the wagon. Sounds of hooves hauling a wagon were heard up the road.
"Sara, get up," Jacob demanded.
Her feet rustled.
"I can't see what I'm doing if you don't hold up the light," Jacob said.
"But, it's heavy," Sara whined.
Jacob took a moment to catch his breath, staring into the dark sky. It was cloudy, covering the stars and the moon as dawn was approaching. Soon it was going to be another day of work at the market, peddling his family's goods. Jacob's Father, Joseph, had spent most of the morning in meditation and prayer. It was Jacob's responsibility as the only son to ready the wagon, so they could depart early before the sunrise.
Jacob walked over to Sara's dangling feet. He lifted the lantern, drifting the light over her body. Sara curled, and let out a groan.
"How about I hold the lamp, and you load the wagon?" Jacob retorted, as he kept the light shining over her face.
Sara's eyes slowly opened.
"Fine," Sara sighed with defeat.
Jacob handed her the lantern, as she rose to her feet. The horses stomped restlessly, while Jacob went back to loading the wagon. Sounds of hooves hauling a wagon were heard up the road.
Friday, April 1, 2011
writing rant
so i'm trying to do this thing called script frenzy. you guys can check it out at www.scriptfrenzy.org i don't think it's too late to join. it's very similar to nanowrimo which is a national novel writing event that takes place every november, so if you're more of a novelist, you only have 7 months left, so get brainstorming.
and that's the tricky part i guess when it comes to writing a script or novel or anything in general. because i don't really brainstorm, i usually write out of impulse. if i feel like doing it, then i will. if i feel sad, guilty, happy, joyful, hopeful, i will probably write about it. it's like i'm vomiting my emotions into words. and it sounds rather instinctive or even barbaric because i only do if i feel. of course there are activities such as eating or drinking or working that we do daily because we need to. if i didn't feel the need to eat then i wouldn't, but there would be several consequences, the most important one being death. now if i don't eat a certain food, i won't die as long as i feed on other things. i could probably live off twinkies, but it'd probably just make me break out and miss vegetables. i don't need to write to live, unless it's my job, but there are a lot of jobs out there that don't cause half the stress and panic than writing for a living. granted, there's a lot of joy in it if you enjoy it and love it. this is where the barbaric thing comes in, if i write out of impulse much like i'm doing now, then i'm missing an integral part of the whole experience. the whole experience of actually freaking out and messing up and hearing that your writing sucks or that whatever you're writing about sucks is half the fun. the other half is being praised, published, and even being an inspiration your writer peers and even the next generation of writers.
i guess i want to experience one half and not the other. i just want writing to be fun because most of our lives we've been finding out what we suck at and what we don't. unfortunately, we know what we're not good at more than we know what we are good at. i think that we suck at most things, but we start off the same way, doing something that comes along and having fun doing it, until someone comes up to you and tells you that you're good or bad. and i've heard people say, "Don't listen to other people. You do what you want to do. Work hard at it. It doesn't matter what other people say as long as you like what you're doing." well, the most obvious question is, "What if you are not that good at what you're doing?" the kid who is most qualified to be a chef isn't going to be the best actor if that's what he wants to do. he can work hard at it with the best of his ability, but the fact is that his ability might not come close to those with God given talent.
there are many doctors, many actors, many cooks, many laborers, many hard working people who may have missed their calling because of the old American dream motto of, "You can do whatever you want as long as you set your mind to it." but of course, we grow up and our hope in our future isn't as bright as it seemed when we heard the motto growing up. i love America. i love cheese fries. but very few accomplish or become what they dreamed of. i wonder how many of those out there that are mediocre at what they love doing and are happy. if they had the choice of being the best at something that they don't love, would they be happy then? would they come to love what they do because they're good at it.
i'm ranting because all my life i've wanted to be the best in something. i didn't just want to do something because it made me happy, but because i was good at it and no one could tell me any different. now with script frenzy, i want to be the best. now, all you have to do to win script frenzy is write a 100 pages in 30 days. and i plan on doing that. i plan on winning. like charlie sheen. but the evil inside me tells me that i won't be happy unless i'm the only winner and i pray that i can be happy for others. that when others surpass me in my skill and accomplish what i want to, that i can be genuinely happy for them. i guess i just put too much pressure on myself to succeed, and when i don't i feel free, but at the same time i want to do my best to see how far that will get me. the ironic part is, when i stop trying so hard and putting the pressure on myself i tend to do alright.
man, i really hope i'm a natural when it comes to picking lotto numbers if this whole writing thing doesn't work out for me.
and that's the tricky part i guess when it comes to writing a script or novel or anything in general. because i don't really brainstorm, i usually write out of impulse. if i feel like doing it, then i will. if i feel sad, guilty, happy, joyful, hopeful, i will probably write about it. it's like i'm vomiting my emotions into words. and it sounds rather instinctive or even barbaric because i only do if i feel. of course there are activities such as eating or drinking or working that we do daily because we need to. if i didn't feel the need to eat then i wouldn't, but there would be several consequences, the most important one being death. now if i don't eat a certain food, i won't die as long as i feed on other things. i could probably live off twinkies, but it'd probably just make me break out and miss vegetables. i don't need to write to live, unless it's my job, but there are a lot of jobs out there that don't cause half the stress and panic than writing for a living. granted, there's a lot of joy in it if you enjoy it and love it. this is where the barbaric thing comes in, if i write out of impulse much like i'm doing now, then i'm missing an integral part of the whole experience. the whole experience of actually freaking out and messing up and hearing that your writing sucks or that whatever you're writing about sucks is half the fun. the other half is being praised, published, and even being an inspiration your writer peers and even the next generation of writers.
i guess i want to experience one half and not the other. i just want writing to be fun because most of our lives we've been finding out what we suck at and what we don't. unfortunately, we know what we're not good at more than we know what we are good at. i think that we suck at most things, but we start off the same way, doing something that comes along and having fun doing it, until someone comes up to you and tells you that you're good or bad. and i've heard people say, "Don't listen to other people. You do what you want to do. Work hard at it. It doesn't matter what other people say as long as you like what you're doing." well, the most obvious question is, "What if you are not that good at what you're doing?" the kid who is most qualified to be a chef isn't going to be the best actor if that's what he wants to do. he can work hard at it with the best of his ability, but the fact is that his ability might not come close to those with God given talent.
there are many doctors, many actors, many cooks, many laborers, many hard working people who may have missed their calling because of the old American dream motto of, "You can do whatever you want as long as you set your mind to it." but of course, we grow up and our hope in our future isn't as bright as it seemed when we heard the motto growing up. i love America. i love cheese fries. but very few accomplish or become what they dreamed of. i wonder how many of those out there that are mediocre at what they love doing and are happy. if they had the choice of being the best at something that they don't love, would they be happy then? would they come to love what they do because they're good at it.
i'm ranting because all my life i've wanted to be the best in something. i didn't just want to do something because it made me happy, but because i was good at it and no one could tell me any different. now with script frenzy, i want to be the best. now, all you have to do to win script frenzy is write a 100 pages in 30 days. and i plan on doing that. i plan on winning. like charlie sheen. but the evil inside me tells me that i won't be happy unless i'm the only winner and i pray that i can be happy for others. that when others surpass me in my skill and accomplish what i want to, that i can be genuinely happy for them. i guess i just put too much pressure on myself to succeed, and when i don't i feel free, but at the same time i want to do my best to see how far that will get me. the ironic part is, when i stop trying so hard and putting the pressure on myself i tend to do alright.
man, i really hope i'm a natural when it comes to picking lotto numbers if this whole writing thing doesn't work out for me.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
The Road
Up the road was a stop sign, past that, a few pot holes along the centerline, and beyond that, broken concrete that exposed what could never be man made. It was on this same road I saw what my human eyes were capable of seeing. An illusion. Enchanted by perfume, it trailed every direction, numbing my senses and slowing down time. I had stopped to smell the rose that was in everything, and being surrounded by all things beautiful, I found a paradise that was unscathed. Not a single blemish on a fallen fruit. No pain from a past heartbreak. No death. What I could see, I felt. And with feeling, came belief. "This world is paved to perfection," I think to myself, as my feet bleed across the crumbled road.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Feelings
You say that you love someone, yet you don't love yourself
You say that you want someone, yet you don't notice who you'll lose
You say that you need someone, yet you don't know why
And you just don't see
That your love, want, need, isn't her.
It's me.
You say that you want someone, yet you don't notice who you'll lose
You say that you need someone, yet you don't know why
And you just don't see
That your love, want, need, isn't her.
It's me.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
pain
about a year and three months ago, i woke up one morning to a shooting pain that was going down my right leg. i went on with my regular morning, going to the bathroom, brushing my teeth, sitting down on the john and flushing out the system. i hoped that the pain would go away if i ignored it, but when i sat down on that toilet i couldn't shake the pain away. i banged my thigh with my fist just to numb out the dull pain. i went about my morning hoping that it would go away after a few days. i blamed the pain in my leg to bad circulation, so i even put my feet in hot water to get the blood going. when that didn't work i scheduled another acupuncture appointment, so i could go get this sorted out when i got home for winter break.
i had received some acupuncture a few months prior to that morning for an injury to my lower back. my back went out after i played basketball and when i got home to my apartment, i was dying for some bengay or icy hot to alleviate the soreness in my back. just a sports injury, i thought. the best athletes were vulnerable to injuries. yeah, i was no elite athlete, but it made me feel better to compare myself with the football and basketball players who got to watch the game from the sidelines in comfort while their teammates moved on without them. it was like a badge of honor for me. i had started lifting weights a few months prior to that and this injury meant that i should take it easy for a while. i was working too hard. i guess all the newfound muscle and ego in me thought that this was just a bump in the road and that i would be back in the gym in no time. but for the time being, i could enjoy myself and rest.
i started working out when i got back from missions in china. it was the middle of summer, in july, and i had leaned out a bit from the missions trip. we hung out with orphans, prayed, walked around, ate meatsticks and hot pots and ice cream and drank soda, and we walked some more. it was great spiritually, mentally, and physically. the high altitude that we were at helped my cardio a bit and i was a lot more leaner that i had been in a long time. i felt good, looked good, and it was time to bulk up. why? why do guys do anything? it's one of two choices. primal probably, and unfortunately. we do it for girls or for selfish gain. in my case, it was probably both. growing up watching arnold schwartzenegger and sylvestor stallone movies had something to do with it. six-pack abs, chiseled arms, and thick chests were my goals when i was growing up. the goals didn't change much throughout college except that i got distracted with depression and security issues, which were most likely rooted in the aforementioned goals. it probably goes deeper, but that's another branch of this tree that i don't want to climb. yes, that's the best metaphor/analogy i could come up with. yes, you can use it.
so i embarked on a bodybuilding adventure of sorts involving bench pressing with a constipated face, eating 5 eggs after every workout, eating whatever i wanted at night because i "earned" it, and stroking my ego.
of course this all backfired in my face. i fell in love with the deadlift. my disc herniated. the disc pressed on my sciatic nerve. it runs down my legs. the chiropractor cracked my back to alleviate the symptoms. the pain switched from my right leg to left. i have no insurance and a year of bitching and moaning ensues.
now i'm sitting in front of this laptop, unable to put into words what i feel, maybe because i don't know how i really do feel. is this injury a form of God's discipline? if it is, great. will i carry this injury longer? for the rest of my life? do i even care about whether i get better or not? this injury is a crutch i can use to excuse myself from anything and everything, no matter what it is. job? nah, i don't know what i want to do because my back hurts. if my back was better, i could figure out what to do. girlfriend? nah, i'm not at my most attractive state. maybe if my back was better i could work out and a girl could fall in love with my body. future? who knows. my back's still messed up so i'm unsure.
now, i'm kind of scared to see what i'll do if my back really does get better or if i get a surgery. no more excuses. which is good. will i follow through and continue on living my life in a new and enlightened perspective? i don't know. my back is still messed up, maybe i'll know after i get an mri or something, but with my back being like this i won't really know for sure. we'll see.
i had received some acupuncture a few months prior to that morning for an injury to my lower back. my back went out after i played basketball and when i got home to my apartment, i was dying for some bengay or icy hot to alleviate the soreness in my back. just a sports injury, i thought. the best athletes were vulnerable to injuries. yeah, i was no elite athlete, but it made me feel better to compare myself with the football and basketball players who got to watch the game from the sidelines in comfort while their teammates moved on without them. it was like a badge of honor for me. i had started lifting weights a few months prior to that and this injury meant that i should take it easy for a while. i was working too hard. i guess all the newfound muscle and ego in me thought that this was just a bump in the road and that i would be back in the gym in no time. but for the time being, i could enjoy myself and rest.
i started working out when i got back from missions in china. it was the middle of summer, in july, and i had leaned out a bit from the missions trip. we hung out with orphans, prayed, walked around, ate meatsticks and hot pots and ice cream and drank soda, and we walked some more. it was great spiritually, mentally, and physically. the high altitude that we were at helped my cardio a bit and i was a lot more leaner that i had been in a long time. i felt good, looked good, and it was time to bulk up. why? why do guys do anything? it's one of two choices. primal probably, and unfortunately. we do it for girls or for selfish gain. in my case, it was probably both. growing up watching arnold schwartzenegger and sylvestor stallone movies had something to do with it. six-pack abs, chiseled arms, and thick chests were my goals when i was growing up. the goals didn't change much throughout college except that i got distracted with depression and security issues, which were most likely rooted in the aforementioned goals. it probably goes deeper, but that's another branch of this tree that i don't want to climb. yes, that's the best metaphor/analogy i could come up with. yes, you can use it.
so i embarked on a bodybuilding adventure of sorts involving bench pressing with a constipated face, eating 5 eggs after every workout, eating whatever i wanted at night because i "earned" it, and stroking my ego.
of course this all backfired in my face. i fell in love with the deadlift. my disc herniated. the disc pressed on my sciatic nerve. it runs down my legs. the chiropractor cracked my back to alleviate the symptoms. the pain switched from my right leg to left. i have no insurance and a year of bitching and moaning ensues.
now i'm sitting in front of this laptop, unable to put into words what i feel, maybe because i don't know how i really do feel. is this injury a form of God's discipline? if it is, great. will i carry this injury longer? for the rest of my life? do i even care about whether i get better or not? this injury is a crutch i can use to excuse myself from anything and everything, no matter what it is. job? nah, i don't know what i want to do because my back hurts. if my back was better, i could figure out what to do. girlfriend? nah, i'm not at my most attractive state. maybe if my back was better i could work out and a girl could fall in love with my body. future? who knows. my back's still messed up so i'm unsure.
now, i'm kind of scared to see what i'll do if my back really does get better or if i get a surgery. no more excuses. which is good. will i follow through and continue on living my life in a new and enlightened perspective? i don't know. my back is still messed up, maybe i'll know after i get an mri or something, but with my back being like this i won't really know for sure. we'll see.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Tom's eyes sear through my consciousness, trying to figure out what had just happened. He whips around, catching his attacker square on the jaw with a firm back-handed fist. The attacker falls to the side, eyes spinning as he lands like a bag of potatoes on the ground before me. Tom turns back to me, a glimmer in his eyes. He's going to enjoy this. He sticks a hand out to me.
"We're going to enjoy this," he says. I grimace, and realize that my bruised knee feels more like someone had just sprayed napalm on it. I take a breath to manage the pain and use it to my advantage. More people had gathered now, I took a quick count at five guys in front of me, fists raised, and looking for their moment to strike. Tom wasn't going to let them have that moment, I knew. He lunged in, going for the furthest of the bunch first. I think in the back of the poor saps mind, he didn't think he was going to have to do any fighting since there were four guys in line before him. Tom didn't care. As his left foot landed feet away from where he'd started, so did his left jab into his opponent's nose, which was subsequently crushed and immediately bled over the white shirt he was wearing.
Naturally, Tom was now surrounded by the rest of the group. Unfortunately for them, we'd done this before. Tom spun hard and launched a sharp right hook into the jaw of the man trying to grab him from the left. Anger and energy flowed from my knee to my fists, and as I'd done so many times before, launched a fist into the attacker trying to attack Tom from the right. It lands. Hard. All of our punches do.
I look at Tom again, this time at eye level. A single bead of sweat glistens on his brow, coming down from his hairline, which he wipes up and into his short black hair. The sun is above us, now. Both of us smirk as we go for a handshake, only to realize that both of our hands are discolored and have scratches all over them. Mine hurts a little, but Tom doesn't feel a thing. He's still coming down from his high, even as we walk back to the street. I raise an eyebrow at him.
"I know, I know, you don't have to say it, I know we overdid it." I give him a smirk. "Fine, I'll pay for drinks at old man Rider's." He senses my silence as the sounds of the city flood back around us, "Maggie's gonna throw a fit, y'know? That broad's gotta learn sign language at some point -- I'm tired'a bein' the one who has to explain everything to her all the time... Sheesh." I smirk again as Tom and I make our way through the crowded street to the bar. Someone'll be picking up their boys later, and it's not gonna be pretty.
The reflection of the sun setting falls across the skyscrapers in the city as the night comes alive, and what was once hues of orange and gold turn into red and luminescent white. The sounds of businessmen and kids turn into the sounds of loose morals and angry men. Somewhere, people were screaming. Somewhere, people were laughing. Somewhere, Mags was gently wrapping my hand up with gauze and resting it on her cheek. The moment is quick to end, though, when she turns around to yell at Tom for a bit. Her face was wet, anyways.
"We're going to enjoy this," he says. I grimace, and realize that my bruised knee feels more like someone had just sprayed napalm on it. I take a breath to manage the pain and use it to my advantage. More people had gathered now, I took a quick count at five guys in front of me, fists raised, and looking for their moment to strike. Tom wasn't going to let them have that moment, I knew. He lunged in, going for the furthest of the bunch first. I think in the back of the poor saps mind, he didn't think he was going to have to do any fighting since there were four guys in line before him. Tom didn't care. As his left foot landed feet away from where he'd started, so did his left jab into his opponent's nose, which was subsequently crushed and immediately bled over the white shirt he was wearing.
Naturally, Tom was now surrounded by the rest of the group. Unfortunately for them, we'd done this before. Tom spun hard and launched a sharp right hook into the jaw of the man trying to grab him from the left. Anger and energy flowed from my knee to my fists, and as I'd done so many times before, launched a fist into the attacker trying to attack Tom from the right. It lands. Hard. All of our punches do.
I look at Tom again, this time at eye level. A single bead of sweat glistens on his brow, coming down from his hairline, which he wipes up and into his short black hair. The sun is above us, now. Both of us smirk as we go for a handshake, only to realize that both of our hands are discolored and have scratches all over them. Mine hurts a little, but Tom doesn't feel a thing. He's still coming down from his high, even as we walk back to the street. I raise an eyebrow at him.
"I know, I know, you don't have to say it, I know we overdid it." I give him a smirk. "Fine, I'll pay for drinks at old man Rider's." He senses my silence as the sounds of the city flood back around us, "Maggie's gonna throw a fit, y'know? That broad's gotta learn sign language at some point -- I'm tired'a bein' the one who has to explain everything to her all the time... Sheesh." I smirk again as Tom and I make our way through the crowded street to the bar. Someone'll be picking up their boys later, and it's not gonna be pretty.
The reflection of the sun setting falls across the skyscrapers in the city as the night comes alive, and what was once hues of orange and gold turn into red and luminescent white. The sounds of businessmen and kids turn into the sounds of loose morals and angry men. Somewhere, people were screaming. Somewhere, people were laughing. Somewhere, Mags was gently wrapping my hand up with gauze and resting it on her cheek. The moment is quick to end, though, when she turns around to yell at Tom for a bit. Her face was wet, anyways.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
The Bruise
Tom stands over me like a monolith. His hands are balled into fists, gripping the air around me. The sun is behind his face, shining a halo around his head, as if he is the angel of death. I am on the ground. I can feel the coming judgment in my bones. The pain starts from my knee and it spreads internally. My lungs close up, shortening each breath and slowing each blink. He’s looking into me, with those eagle eyes. A bruised knee is a bruised knee. And that meant the world was going to end.
Friday, January 21, 2011
what's there left to say - continued
what is there left to say? this question has really left me speechless, but not fingerless, so on i type.
from a guy who seems to have absolutes on his mind and is quick to avoid modernism or post-modernism and whatever else is going to come after that, i can't say that i have an absolute answer to this. this question has left me a bit stunned because i realize my error in some of my writing and in some of the ways that i have dealt with people.
i was so confident that my way was right and don't get me wrong. i do believe in absolutes because, to be frank, they exist. there is God. there is sin. there is salvation. there is heaven and there is hell. and i know that not everyone believes this or knows this. but my error lied in the fact that i came from such an arrogant place that i had ignored the heart of the matter. i had all the "right" answers, all the "good" advice, but i lacked compassion and sympathy. i desired sacrifice, not mercy. i did not understand in what was being said, i only heard what was wrong and wanted to correct it like some lazy Solomon, who got his answers from google. so i ask for forgiveness in my lack of understanding, in listening, in loving. and that brings us to the question: what else is there to say?
in hope that this question will expand upon this question, may i add what else is there to do?
after you say i love you. after you marry. after you live joyfully for so many years. what else is there to say and do? after confessing my belief in absolutes, dare i answer with one? no, i won't. at least i don't believe that these answers are the only ones, i'm sure there are others. there are many answers to this question and i can think of a couple right now. that's right, i have more than one answer and it's for me as well as for the originator of the question that it may be encouraging and help him.
keep growing. obvious i know. what else is there to say or do? find out. keep seeking and trying to find out what to say and/or do. grow in that love, in understanding one another. complacency is an enemy and like you want to grow as a person and in one's career, we must fight to grow. why? reasonable follow up question and another obvious answer to why we should fight.
to enjoy. we enjoy love. love wouldn't be worth doing, let alone fighting for, if it wasn't enjoyable. there is joy in love and we should enjoy that or else it'll just pass by or, even worse, die.
so what else is there to say and do? i say this in hope: a lot.
from a guy who seems to have absolutes on his mind and is quick to avoid modernism or post-modernism and whatever else is going to come after that, i can't say that i have an absolute answer to this. this question has left me a bit stunned because i realize my error in some of my writing and in some of the ways that i have dealt with people.
i was so confident that my way was right and don't get me wrong. i do believe in absolutes because, to be frank, they exist. there is God. there is sin. there is salvation. there is heaven and there is hell. and i know that not everyone believes this or knows this. but my error lied in the fact that i came from such an arrogant place that i had ignored the heart of the matter. i had all the "right" answers, all the "good" advice, but i lacked compassion and sympathy. i desired sacrifice, not mercy. i did not understand in what was being said, i only heard what was wrong and wanted to correct it like some lazy Solomon, who got his answers from google. so i ask for forgiveness in my lack of understanding, in listening, in loving. and that brings us to the question: what else is there to say?
in hope that this question will expand upon this question, may i add what else is there to do?
after you say i love you. after you marry. after you live joyfully for so many years. what else is there to say and do? after confessing my belief in absolutes, dare i answer with one? no, i won't. at least i don't believe that these answers are the only ones, i'm sure there are others. there are many answers to this question and i can think of a couple right now. that's right, i have more than one answer and it's for me as well as for the originator of the question that it may be encouraging and help him.
keep growing. obvious i know. what else is there to say or do? find out. keep seeking and trying to find out what to say and/or do. grow in that love, in understanding one another. complacency is an enemy and like you want to grow as a person and in one's career, we must fight to grow. why? reasonable follow up question and another obvious answer to why we should fight.
to enjoy. we enjoy love. love wouldn't be worth doing, let alone fighting for, if it wasn't enjoyable. there is joy in love and we should enjoy that or else it'll just pass by or, even worse, die.
so what else is there to say and do? i say this in hope: a lot.
what's left to say?
i'll have to apologize, i'm really not the type to open myself up to public forum; i usually don't like any opinion but my own... i guess this is more of an, "ask yourself," kind of question.
a major goal of this blog, and part of it's fundamental flaw is the fact that it's based around there being something -- something that moves you, that drives you, that makes you feel anything other than what your norm is. i think that by being the people that we are, the fact that we're putting words down and letting it float in cyberspace for the better part of forever means that at some point, what we had to say made us feel something. that for those 10-20 minutes we actually felt something.
i try to diversify my writing, i do. in the past two months i've posted into three blogs. in the past half year, it was something like four. it's a way of keeping organized; by audience and subject matter. today's post is very personal, but i think the subject matter is interesting... though a lot of it depends on the experiences that you've had and where you are with people in general.
the question is, "what do you say after, 'i love you'?"
do you tell them that you're always going to be there for them?
that you'll never be more than a phone call away?
that you're like brothers/sisters, and that you want to watch them grow?
that if the world was meeting its doom, you'd run to their house first?
what about her?
what's left to tell her after you tell her that you love her?
that you love the person she is now, and that you will always love who she is?
that you have no idea what the future brings, but you want to be there when it happens?
that she's the last and first things you think about?
that throughout the day, you're working your ass off because you want her to be proud of you when the night comes rolling in?
thoughts on the fairly recent.. but it's late. more later.
a major goal of this blog, and part of it's fundamental flaw is the fact that it's based around there being something -- something that moves you, that drives you, that makes you feel anything other than what your norm is. i think that by being the people that we are, the fact that we're putting words down and letting it float in cyberspace for the better part of forever means that at some point, what we had to say made us feel something. that for those 10-20 minutes we actually felt something.
i try to diversify my writing, i do. in the past two months i've posted into three blogs. in the past half year, it was something like four. it's a way of keeping organized; by audience and subject matter. today's post is very personal, but i think the subject matter is interesting... though a lot of it depends on the experiences that you've had and where you are with people in general.
the question is, "what do you say after, 'i love you'?"
do you tell them that you're always going to be there for them?
that you'll never be more than a phone call away?
that you're like brothers/sisters, and that you want to watch them grow?
that if the world was meeting its doom, you'd run to their house first?
what about her?
what's left to tell her after you tell her that you love her?
that you love the person she is now, and that you will always love who she is?
that you have no idea what the future brings, but you want to be there when it happens?
that she's the last and first things you think about?
that throughout the day, you're working your ass off because you want her to be proud of you when the night comes rolling in?
thoughts on the fairly recent.. but it's late. more later.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
i've got my weaknesses,
but i'm going without them tonight
i'm making myself a promise
that every day i'm going to be a little stronger
that i'm holding on to what i've got a little longer
i'm going to be stronger
because i need myself to be
because when the day comes,
i don't get a break
when the morning shows itself
i'm going to be ready to prove myself,
again and again
but i'm going without them tonight
i'm making myself a promise
that every day i'm going to be a little stronger
that i'm holding on to what i've got a little longer
i'm going to be stronger
because i need myself to be
because when the day comes,
i don't get a break
when the morning shows itself
i'm going to be ready to prove myself,
again and again
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