let there be something

2011-09-30T21:38:00.000-07:00

"dear you"

2011-09-15T13:24:00.001-07:00

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

She

2011-08-28T22:51:00.000-07:00

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.

Glycerine

2011-08-15T00:47:00.001-07:00

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.

another day, another month, another prompt

2011-08-11T09:39:00.000-07:00

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%.

Watcher

2011-08-04T10:45:00.000-07:00

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?

last fire

2011-07-30T23:22:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-27T13:36:00.000-07:00

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.

starting this easy...

2011-07-25T23:02:00.000-07:00

these are your options, do what you will, then post it. these are also the most vague instructions i could provide. go!

2011-06-10T00:46:00.000-07:00

sometimes, i forget too look at the little things
and remember that at the end of the day, that's exactly what we are,
looking up at the rest of the world.

Christmas Morning

2011-06-01T10:09:00.000-07:00

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.

The Living Fire (cont.)

2011-04-09T21:40:00.001-07:00

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.

Thoughts, Dreams, and Fantasies

2011-04-06T20:36:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-04-05T10:11:00.001-07:00

http://www.amazon.com/Tuscan-Whole-Milk-Gallon-128/product-reviews/B00032G1S0/ref=dp_db_cm_cr_acr_txt?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=1

please read the first page. some of them are kind of hilarious.

thanks, wes.

2011-04-04T11:30:00.000-07:00

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.

Chapter 1: The Living Fire

2011-04-03T20:48:00.000-07:00

"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.

writing rant

2011-04-01T14:03:00.000-07:00

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.

The Road

2011-03-26T18:36:00.000-07:00

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.

Feelings

2011-03-17T00:24:00.001-07:00

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.

pain

2011-03-08T18:57:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-02-17T19:15:00.000-08:00

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.

The Bruise

2011-02-09T09:22:00.000-08:00

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.

what's there left to say - continued

2011-01-21T11:52:00.000-08:00

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.

what's left to say?

2011-01-21T00:21:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-01-08T21:46:00.001-08:00

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

dear gays and lesbians,

2010-12-28T11:44:00.001-08:00

we're sorry for everything. we're sorry for labeling you, for insulting you, for killing you, for denying you marriage, and for making your lives a living hell.

we're sorry, but we know that we can't take back all the horrible things we've done to you, so we've come to a compromise. a truce, a deal.

we will leave you alone and let you marry and treat you like normal folks as long as you stop having sex with one another.

gays can have sex with lesbians and vice versa, but not gays with gays and lesbians with lesbians.

we're all for love and peace and sex, but not man on man or woman on woman. well, the woman on woman thing can work if there's another man involved, but that's complicated and we can figure that out later when we hit that road.

but man on man is just... you know gross. woman on woman just seems awkward if it isn't between two really beautiful blondes, or brunettes of course. we don't discriminate.

we'll even allow you to marry, but of course gays can only marry lesbians and vice versa. we have to be consistent.

we really believe that this will work because you can still be as gay or lesbionic as much you want, minus the whole sex thing, and you'll get your rights as real people. we want you to be as comfortable with us and we are with us. and we want you to be like us as long as you stay true to yourself because we're all for that.

we really hope that this will work out. look forward to your response.

- The Law Abiding Law Abiders (LALA)

the end

2010-12-27T12:00:00.000-08:00

the world is funny.

i can't remember a time when people didn't fight over what they believed in. Allah, Jehovah, Jesus, Buddha, satan, Edward Cullen. leftists, rightists, extremists, nudists. everyone had a team to fight for. bombs here, a protest there, threats of nuclear attack every other full moon, hair pulling, screaming, and crying. everyone had a reason to be angry at everybody else. we were like this from the beginning of time.

but then something happened.

one day, everyone just stopped believing.

and i mean everybody.

republicans, democrats, liberals, conservatives, terrorists, hell even athiests, and as far as i know, they didn't believe in anything to begin with. but that's the effect it had on everybody because deep down in your core, you believe in something. it could be God, demons, the american dream, gravity, or yourself, but people believed in something. and that day, something was taken from us.

i don't know the exact date, no one knows for sure, and i don't think anyone really cares anymore. it was a long time ago when governments were still intact and when people actually cared about their "fellow man."

i heard about groups of people that used to help people "in need." people that were hit by a tsunami or earthquake, people that went hungry every night, people that were dying. pretty pointless. they should've just been looking out for themselves. dying people are best left alone in this world.

we're all heading towards death and now there are only two types of people left. those that want to prolong the inevitable and steal as much time as they can on this earth and those that see no point in delaying. this earth used to crowded as hell, i heard. over 6 billion people. i can't even imagine. last i checked, we were teetering around a cool million or so. and even that was declining.

old people were a big chunk of the declining rate and kids either found a way to survive or died trying. i was one of the lucky ones.

i was abandoned by my parents as soon as i was born. some woman found me and saw a use for me. she raised me to sell me as soon as i was good for something. turns out i'm not too bad looking and she sold me to a rich couple as a sex slave.

sex was the natural way to get high when things were dry around here. of course, people didn't see the point of it anymore because making kids was a waste of time. it was mostly for pleasure, if you can call it that. it was more of an escape.

a way to forget the world we lived in. sex was a dream inducing state that left people bittersweet because they knew the feeling wouldn't last. it would make them feel good and even hopeful, but hope was a dangerous emotion and it was best if you killed it as soon as it emerged from your naive mind.

i've been a slave for quite a few years now and it's safe to say that i don't feel a thing. that as far as i know, this reality around me could be a dream. i pinch myself, hit myself, and inject myself whenever i can hoping to wake up from this. the thing is, is that the hope is shattered as soon it starts because hope lies in waking up to something else. i imagine myself waking up to a bright light, but it stops there. the light fades and blackness swallows up the light. there's nothing to wake up to.

i don't know how this world began, but i know that i'm living in the end of it.

but sometimes, i do get this weird sense of maybe this isn't it. that if one day i close my eyes for good, then i'll truly awaken to something. i've been having these dreams lately of waking up. i always wake up before i can see what woke me up and i'm always in tears. but i feel like that there's something there, like this isn't the way things are supposed to be. of course, that's where my dangerous sense of hope lies in now. in sleep. maybe when i die, i can dream forever. maybe i can even see what wakes me up in those dreams. and that's what gets me. what makes me think that i'll even be conscious when i die. after that, i'll be nothing just like i was when i was alive. i'll be gone, just like that. i'll cease to exist, is what a lot of people say around here when they get to that age.

and they say it with absolute certainty because it's the only thing they're certain of.

Why the World Needs an Apocalypse

2010-12-24T09:18:00.000-08:00

This is the prompt for the winter break. Write a story about your own vision of an apocalypse. It can be pre, post, or during the apocalypse and it doesn't have to be in 1st person. And to make it more interesting...the second person that posts will have to take something from the previous person's post and incorporate it into their own story, and so on. It can be the vision itself, an object, person, place, etc. Be creative guys and happy writing!

Laying Down the Groundwork

2010-12-22T13:18:00.000-08:00

The most daunting task is always coming back. Any sense of familiarity is gone, and I find myself at a loss for words. Why? Words used to flow from my fingers with a melodic ease... I could spend entire nights to the rhythm of my fingers tapping away at the keyboard.

It used to be the easiest thing, to let go of everything that I keep balled up inside, but the more I've kept inside, the harder it is to let go. Let's lay down some groundwork and see if we can't make this into something, yeah?

The way I see it, I'm always just barely chugging along -- I'm not that old, but I've exerted my body far further than it should go. I'm not that young, but I find myself holding on to reckless ambition and too many dreams. Recently I've made this decision to hold nothing back. Maybe it's an overdue ambition from my youth, to be able to put everything out there that I've needed to, to live life in both earnest and honest; or maybe it's something that I should've done a long time ago that I've never learned to do.

There's a part of me that's scared -- scared of what's going to happen when I reveal who I am to myself; am I going to be more of a softy than I realize I am? Am I going to realize that I really am as much of an asshole and hard-headed as I'm afraid of? Or am I going to be the kind of person that I hate?

It's never going to feel like there's enough time in the world to do everything. But you're never going to really know the world unless you look at it through honest eyes.

The Rock Climber

2010-12-19T19:29:00.000-08:00

The sun had yet to show itself. The rock climber gauged his next feat by surveying the unique structures visible from the baseline. Of course he knew that on his way up there were going to be moments where he would have to quickly change plans and reroute his ascending path. The surface of the rock was clever that way. The vastness of its façade, the texture that withstood time, and the sheer boldness of its presence gave the rock climber a deep feeling of reverence. Reverence was the ritualistic element that the rock climber had to submit before attempting his journey upward. No previous rock had allowed the rock climber to set foot on its summit if he was not humbled. The rock was a proud deity. The rock climber continued to engage in his cognitive surveillance. The climb would be easy at first. There were many small jagged edges that would allow him to reach about 20 km with grace. However, from previous experiences, he knew they could not be trusted. Every single grab and step must be premeditated. At first he would feel with his hands, the sturdiness of the edges, and then calculate the ability of the edge to support his weight. Superficiality had no place in climbing. In fact, all true rock climbers knew that eye sight had nothing to do with the success of a single step upward. Above the 20 km, the climber saw that the face of his adversary would change and become smooth. This is where the real work would begin. Using his tools, the climber would puncture the surface with harness bolts that would then be used to attach the screwgate carabiners. Most of the time would be spent manipulating the equipment. At a certain point, the rock climber saw that there would be a wide ledge where he could rest and gather his remaining strength for the finish. However, this ledge also prevented the rock climber from seeing the rest of the way like the rock was intentionally hiding its most dangerous secrets. The rock climber smiled to himself. The top was never the intention of the rock climber. And contrary to what most believed, it wasn’t about the journey either. In the deepest recesses of the climber’s soul he felt that he was communicating with the rock, a conversation that could not be replicated by modern trickery. To achieve this, the rock climber had to throw way his falsities and stand bare before the grand judge. He knew that a mere human like him had absolutely nothing the rock desired, except for the abandonment of self. The sun was no longer immature, announced the commencement. The rock climber was ready and with the smile on his face that could be interpreted as arrogance or excitement, and with the eyes of absolute determination, he began his ascension.

John (Part 1)

2010-12-12T15:38:00.000-08:00

John found himself lying awake at what he thought was morning. His eyes weren’t open yet but he could feel the warmth of daylight coming through the window hitting his face. He decided it was best to try and ignore the calling of the morning sun and return to the dream he had emerged from.

“What was I just dreaming about” he thought to himself.

John let out a long irritated sigh, rolled over to his side and buried his face in his pillow. He had forgotten what he had dreamt about but he knew somehow that it was something good. The resonance of feeling that lingers after a good dream toyed with John but made the process of waking up all the more frustrating. He hugged his pillow tightly and continued to bury his face further into his pillow to help him forget that it was morning. Something, however, wasn’t right. The alarm clock that went off every morning at the same time wasn’t buzzing. No, it wasn’t that. Was it the absence of the smell of coffee? Had he forgotten to set his coffee maker the night before? No, it wasn’t that either. Consciousness suddenly flooded his mind and thoughts were rushing in and out of his mind. John felt something deeply wrong in his gut. It became a knotted feeling. And then, it hit him. John had absolutely no idea what day of the week it was.
John was a farmer. He lived alone on a small piece of land that had an incredible view of a mountain range. His farm consisted of nine pigs, one horse, two cows, and a dozen of chickens. There was a narrow gravel road that extended from his house for about 10 miles before it hit a local road. Every single day since John purchased the farm and his livestock, woke up at 5:00 a.m. not a minute too late, put some clothes on, went downstairs to his kitchen and poured himself some coffee that he had set to automatically start brewing at 4:50 a.m. the night before. He wasn’t much of a breakfast eater because it upset his stomach and he didn’t like the feeling of an upset gut in the morning. John would sit out on his porch on a bench he had built himself and took deep breathes while sipping his steaming coffee. John would return to his kitchen and wash out his cup and hang it on a bent nail above his sink. One nail, one coffee mug. He then put on his thick leather work boots and set out to tend to different chores around the farm depending on the day of the week. Every day of the week was different. Monday, John would go to the cows and check their health followed by gathering one pail of milk. Tuesday, John would clean out the pig pens. Wednesday, he would count the chickens. On Thursday, John would lay down fresh hay in the stable. On Friday, John would ride his horse to the river and fish for salmon. Saturday, John went into town to buy his bottle of whiskey. And on Sunday, John would sit in his house and stare at small picture frame sitting on the mantle of his fireplace and empty his bottle of whiskey. This was John’s pattern of living every single week. The moment John opened his eyes in the morning he knew what day of the week it was without having to look at a calendar or even think about it.
However, today John simply could not figure out which day of the week it was.

John frantically got out of bed and rushed down the stairs.

“Damn, I need a shirt” he thought to himself.

John rushed back upstairs to his room and grabbed a button up shirt that was hanging off a nail on the wall. He quickly put it on and rushed back down the stairs. He looked at the coffee maker; there was no coffee in it. John tore the lid of the coffee maker open and there were no coffee grounds or a filter. Anxiety overtook John. He then sat down at his small wooden dining table and began to think.

“What did I do yesterday” he thought as if it would clue him in on what day it was.

“Did I go into town? Did I have my whiskey? Did I clean out the…” he couldn’t remember.

The more John tried to remember, the more confused he became. John got up and started looking through his cabinets and drawers. Most of them were empty save some canned foods and mismatched utensils. He was looking for a calendar. In the cabinet right above his refrigerator John found a small black book that read “Planner” on the front of it. John opened it and flipped through the pages in search of the date. However, soon after John began his search he realized that he never kept track of the date, just the day of the week.

Feeling defeated, John slid to the ground with his back to the refrigerator and hugged his knees. He didn’t know what to do next. He felt anxious and afraid. After staring blankly into space for some time he thought of something.

Pull

2010-11-28T11:22:00.000-08:00

I bought a gun today. No bullets. Just the gun, a revolver. I got it at a pawn shop down the street from the church. The guy at the pawn shop didn’t have any problems with me buying it even though I didn’t have a license or anything. I made a mental note to tell the congregation not to go there. The owner probably thought it was for self-defense; it wasn’t uncommon for drunks around the neighborhoods to come and harass you. The revolver’s not shiny or clean like the guns you see in the movies. There’s a bit of rust on the handle and inside the barrel, maybe some water got into it somehow. I imagine the previous owner standing on the ledge of a bridge near a calm river with the gun to his temple, standing there because of his indecisiveness on how to end his life. Maybe he jumped and then pulled the trigger, an impressive feat, or perhaps he pulled the trigger and fell into the water. In my fantasy, the gun is still in his hand as he sinks to the bottom and is washed away in the current.
The gun now looks aged and worn down from being pawned numerous times. With its solid black handle, short barrel, and empty cylinder it looked like one of those guns that cops keep taped to their ankles. Maybe it was used by a cop once when he was undercover on a drug deal, they made the mistake of not searching his ankles and he was ready to go all Ronin on their asses when they found the wire on him. Maybe the gun saved his life. Different characters come into my fantasies every time I look at the gun; the previous owner on the bridge was a student whose parents always made his decisions. His parents decided what college he would go to, what he would study, who he would marry, and he had enough. The gun still makes me nervous; I hold it in both of my hands as if I were examining it for prints. Big guns just freak me out. Thank God it’s not a Dirty Harry gun, I’d never touch it.
The only real memory I have of my father was the time I went hunting, we didn’t even use rifles. I was twelve years old and he didn’t like using guns; he preferred the bow and arrow. He had made it himself, carving the bow out of a part of an old tree he chopped down behind our house. He sharpened the branches of that same tree into arrows. “No fruit on that tree, but at least it had a use,” he said. I remember the wood peels that fell onto our grass and the smell of dead wood as he sculpted the weapon sitting on a rocking chair he also had made. We drove out early in the morning into a hunting area of a forest nearby. I was naturally a shy and quiet boy, so my father didn’t have trouble with me being silent. We tiptoed around until we found a good spot to wait at. I had hoped that I would see my father climb up a tree with a wooden spear and jump down to impale a wild boar like Rambo in “First Blood.” That didn’t happen. Instead, we waited. We waited for what seemed like hours. This only made me wonder how long Rambo was up in that tree holding that spear. There was so much blood. Thinking of the blood makes my skin crawl. My mind quickly comes back to my office, my desk, and the ritual before me.
I open the cylinder to make sure that it’s empty, as if by some miracle bullets would appear out of thin air. I roll the cylinder listening to the rapid clicks and snap the cylinder back into the chamber. I hold the gun and look around at my office to take in the scenery. My desk takes up half of the room and on it sit books that I’ve allowed to pile up over the few years I’ve been a pastor. There are three stacks of books, categorized into different genres: classic Christian literature such as Pilgrim’s Progress and Confession; fiction by Dostoevsky and O’Connor; and corny, modern Christian books that come off more as self-help books. The latter category piled up as members of my congregation thought I could use inspiring words by famous pastors to “encourage” my walk with the Lord. I’m pretty sure that they wanted me to take a hint, “This is the way you should preach. Short, concise phrases that everyone will get. Believe it and you can do it. Imagine it and it will happen.” I mentioned at one time that those pastors had nothing to do with the Bible and were more concerned with money than God. The next thing I know is the senior pastor coming to my closet sized office telling me to apologize to the entire congregation. I did, and lied saying that I would read the books. I went to confess to my priest after that, but some of the guilt remains. No pictures hang on my walls or sit on my desk because I don’t like thinking of my past mistakes. I found pictures to be reminders of the little imperfections that lay heavy on my shoulders; pictures were fake smiles trying to compensate for lack of joy.
I keep my diplomas in a box at home. All that hangs on my wall is a calendar that was given me this past New Year. A member of the congregation gave it as a present to wish me a year of happiness and joy. I use it to make sure of when Ash Wednesday is, to remind myself to tell everyone to give up something for Lent. As I lay back in my computer chair, I remind myself its Good Friday, and I put the gun to my temple.
The coolness of the barrel on my skin is always refreshing, but the grit of the rust quickly takes away that pleasure. The thought that I should be preparing for tonight’s sermon passes through my mind and then I breathe in deeply as the rush goes through me. I forget about the sermon, about the fact that the gun isn’t loaded; all of my focus is at the gun at my head and my finger on the trigger. My life doesn’t flash before my eyes, but all of my memories seem more significant. The excitement starts when I realize that I have control over whether I live or die, and having the gun in my hand does that to me. Regardless of it being loaded or unloaded, the adrenaline starts pumping as I cock back the hammer. I heard from somewhere that you’re supposed to squeeze the trigger as opposed to pulling it, but no one’s ever said that in the movies. “Squeeze the trigger.” That thought distracts me from the high, but it comes back as I close my eyes, pull the trigger, and hear the hammer hit the empty chamber. I breathe out slowly as I close my eyes to savor the moment. It’s a moment when I go absolutely blank. My mind goes white and I don’t feel the weight on my shoulders. The burden that lies so heavily on me goes away in that moment and I feel alright. It never lasts; it’s just a temporary fix to my guilty condition.
I open my eyes and put the gun in my lap; my hand moves away a stack of books to reveal my desk clock. It’s dead. I thought that the batteries were dead, but the clock remained still even when I switched them out. The short hand is right on six and the long hand on twelve. The same member who gave me the calendar offered me a new clock, but I refused. I didn’t want the clock to change. The dead clock was a gift from Mortimer or Morty, a friend I had grown up with in the church. We even went to Catholic school together and Morty was always the one rebelling. One time we were skipping class to go eat off campus; I justified it to my mother saying that we had finished all of our work for the school year and were only watching movies in class. In actuality, I was the only one out of my group of friends to have finished the work, Morty was nearly held back, not only because of the missing assignments, but because he had so many unexcused absences.
This was one of the rare times that I had chosen to skip with Morty and I had just turned 18. Morty decided to celebrate my coming of age and slight rebellion by taking me to an adult video store.
“It’s a rite of passage, man. Don’t worry about it; it’s just a venial sin,” Morty said.
He was wrong, it was a cardinal sin, one of the seven deadly sins; he never paid attention during Sunday school. I didn’t want to disappoint Morty and it was near the end of the school year before we went off to college. I humored him and we went. The guilt and burden that I feel now started there or at least that’s where I felt its presence clearly. The store was off a main road near our neighborhood and many complained of it being an eyesore to a generally clean and moral town. The store had a drive thru because it used to be a bank; the same suction tube used to deposit your paycheck was now used to rent dirty movies. We drove in Morty’s car, a 1990 Honda Civic with paint so faded that you can’t tell what color it was before. It looked slightly like charcoal when he had it, but Morty loved it because it was his. We drove down the street to the store and as we pulled in, I asked him if we could go through the drive thru.
“What? Why?” exclaimed Morty.
“I don’t want to go inside,” I said.
“But, that’s the whole point of a porn shop. It’s like a bookstore. You don’t have to buy anything; you can just read in the store. Well I mean you can’t do what you would do watching porn in the shop, but going in there is like getting a peep for free. It’s like a strip club… dude, we should just go to a strip club.” Morty started to turn the car around.
“What? No! Park the car, I’ll go in.”
“You’re so gullible, man. You know I don’t have money for a strip club. Alright, out the car,” Morty commanded.
I sighed and stepped out of the car. My heart pounded as I realized that I was still in my school uniform and took off my tie and jacket. Morty was already at the door, holding it for me. He smiled when he saw how nervous I was. My heart pounded as I approached the door to the store and I took a deep breath as I went in. The cool air hit me as Morty followed in behind me and a clerk welcomed us to the store. Morty was still in his school uniform, but the clerk didn’t care.
“You guys from St. Paul up the road?” asked the clerk.
“Yeah, do a lot of guys from there come here?” asked Morty.
“Yeah, you kids keep me in business. Let me know if you need any help.”
Morty smiled and continued on looking through the aisles to see if anything caught his eye. Everything caught my eye at this point, but I felt conflicted. We had just gone over the cardinal sins in Sunday school this past week. My teacher had gone into great detail over each of the seven deadly sins, but when it came to lust he simply said, “Get through it.” Those words echoed in my mind as naked bodies surrounded me and closed in. I quickly looked for Morty and kept close to him, afraid that God would smite me. I tried not to look at the bodies; I tried looking at the faces, the eyes of the actors and actresses on the boxes, but my eyes went to their bodies. “Just get through it, just get through it,” I told myself. We looked around for an hour until the clerk realized that we weren’t going to buy anything. He told us to get out or he’d call up the school. Morty couldn’t afford to get into any more trouble and I had enough, so we left.
“Not bad, right?” asked Morty. “Next time we’re going to a strip club,” he joked as we got in his car and I remained silent because all I could think about was how I felt in that store. My heart beat out of my chest and I couldn’t turn away from the naked bodies that were contained on the video boxes. The one image that caught my eye was one of a girl that was fully clothed, a rare sight, with her back turned dressed in a plaid shirt and short shorts. She had brunette hair, dark eyes, and legs that didn’t seem to end. At that moment I didn’t care if it was a cardinal sin or not, I burned that image into my mind for later comfort and it is still clear as day. Every time I brought up the image in my mind it seemed to add more weight on my shoulders. The accumulation of images didn’t stop there. Morty had kept his father’s collection of Playboy magazines and with the internet, things were only a click away.
I was at Morty’s house one day in the summer and we were in his room looking at the old Playboys. Morty got up to go out and have a smoke while his parents were still at work, they owned a flower shop close to the school. They were kind people. Once we graduated, I came home to a giant wreath of roses standing in front of our door. It had a card on it saying, “Congratulations, son.” I kept that wreath as long as I could and dried out the roses, so it would last longer. I stayed in his room looking at the magazines while Morty went out to his backyard. I turned the pages gazing at magnificent figures and I got to a page of an interview with one of the models. I hadn’t read anything since school ended and this was the most words on a page that I had seen since then; I figured it would be academic. The model was 19, she was in college and had dreams of becoming a full time model or actress. Her biggest inspiration was her mother because her father wasn’t around. She wanted to make a lot of money to take care of her mother. Her mother had worked three jobs to support her son and two daughters. She liked dark chocolates and hated sour cream.
I stopped reading. All these models, these girls, were somebody’s daughters. They lay on the page so bare and vulnerable, inviting eyes to feast on their flesh, their most intimate state. How many of their fathers had abandoned them? What would their mothers think of their daughters selling their innocence? And what would they think of me, one who had gazed with unclean eyes and a perverse desire for their touch. A debt came upon me, it was something that I had long carried around before, but had been blind to until that time. The debt lay heavy on my soul, a small crack that shattered any hope of perfection.
This burden and guilt remained on my shoulders still even though I did everything I could to alleviate it. I went to seminary hoping that working for God would repay back this debt, but the weight got heavier and heavier. I felt like an ignored child, unforgiven by his parents and looked up on with disappointing eyes. I had become my own reminder of my imperfection and my inability to be anything more. “Killing myself” with an empty gun was a new ritual for me, like the Eucharist, it nourished me, reminded me of my failures, and erased them, even if it was just for a moment.
Morty had gone on to graduate from high school and go on to college. He worked for a company crunching numbers day in and out, but lived for the weekend where his paychecks fueled his lusts for drink and women. Morty hadn’t been to church in a long time nor did he practice any part of the faith except one. Confession. He came every week to “confess” his sins to me and relived the events of the previous weekend before heading out to enjoy the next one. Every Friday he would come tell me of his exploits. It’s Good Friday today. I look over at my dead clock out of habit and then I hear a knock at my door. It’s Morty. The gun is still in my lap, so I grab it and before I can open my desk drawer he comes in. I have the gun in my right hand, hiding it behind my desk out of his line of sight and greet him as I stick out my left hand to shake his.
“Hey, Father, how’s it going?” he asks as he shakes my hand. He always called me Father even though I was a pastor of a Lutheran church.
“Not too bad,” I answer as I close my open drawer. Morty takes a seat in front of me and begins to tell his tale of the previous weekend.
“Hey, when was the last time you heard from Helen?” Morty asks.
Helen was my ex-girlfriend, who, last I heard, was currently a missionary in China. I remember when I met Helen for the first time three years ago when I had just graduated from seminary. She represented the reason why I had chosen to be a Protestant minister rather than a Catholic priest was because I hoped to marry. I didn’t have the gift of celibacy nor did I have the desire for it. I met her at a retreat that the recent graduates had to attend and after the initial welcome and congratulations we transitioned into worship. The lights dimmed and the slow, calm piano music began to play to get us into the right mindset. I looked up and as the light shone on the praise band and saw a medium sized girl with brunette hair that she wore up, dark eyes closed in prayer, dressed moderately in a plaid shirt and jeans. My heart raced out of my chest and I prayed fervently for an opportunity to meet her.
After worship we had a chance to settle into our cabins, but I spent my time looking for an opportunity to meet Helen. I hoped that she would start conversing with a person I knew and when she did I joined them as naturally as I could.
“Hey, Joe, great worship, right? Sorry to interrupt you guys. Hey, I’m Joe, I mean he’s Joe, but I’m Joe’s friend.” I nervously interjected. She smiled and I’m not quite sure what she saw in me then.
“Hi, I’m Helen. That was a crazy message wasn’t it?”
“Um, yes, yes it was.” I had no idea what the message was about. There were some bits of the message I had caught, something about apples, but I was too busy thinking of how to approach Helen.
“I’ve never heard the Gospel preached like that before. Like, how bearing fruit in our lives is so important in our walk with the Lord? It was really challenging.”
“Indeed, it was,” I wish I knew what she was talking about, but this was going better than anticipated.
“But, his analogy of how apples only grow during a certain time of the season encouraged me because I know I don’t bear the fruit of love as much as I would like to. What about you?”
“Uh, yeah. I know what you mean, but I feel like Jesus died and in that there’s fruit to be beared, like in John 12:24?” I was using the “Jesus is the answer to every question” method and that happened to be the only verse I knew with the word fruit in it, but it was effective because no one could refute it.
“Hmm. That’s really interesting.”
My hands were moist with sweat, I thought I had blown it, but then she said, “What’s your name? And could we talk more about this, later?” I cracked a smile and assured her that I was glad to do so. We never really talked about bearing fruit after; she just asked me to pray for her and we were inseparable for the next year.
She wanted me to be a “good tree that bore good fruit,” so I did everything she wanted me to, including coming to her church, which I pastor in now. I tried my best to bear good fruit, doing what I thought would make her happy and make her feel loved. But, to her it felt more like we had something in common that we loved, like estranged parents who stayed together for their children. She gave me a pained look of momentary contentment whenever she looked into my eyes. Her eyes softened, her mouth was slightly open, and she held my hand. Things went well when she gave me that look. At other times, especially near the end of the relationship, she looked at me with blank eyes, a firm mouth, and told me it looked like I just wanted to get through our relationship instead of maintaining it. It was as if the same quality that attracted me to Helen was holding her back from what she really wanted.
“I feel empty inside,” she once told me.
“You’re bearing fruit,” I told her.
“No,” she replied. “I’m not, I need to be better. I’m not doing enough good. How can I expect to get into Heaven when I don’t feel good enough? ” I tried to tell her that she was far superior to me, but it had no affect.
One day she told me that it was over. I wasn’t the one she wanted in her life for the long run and that was the last I saw her. I went into a deep depression, evident by the congregation, who kept asking me to preach on good stories of the Bible like David and Goliath, not Judas hanging himself. Later, I heard that she went and got married to a missionary and went off to China to “earn her keep.” That was about the time I had the idea of buying a gun. All those memories flooded back to me as Morty stood in front of me.
“Last I heard she was in China. Happily married.” I tighten my grip around the gun.
“Helen died,” Morty said. The burden bears its full weight on me. All the air in me goes out and I cannot utter a response.
“She killed herself.” My mind goes blank. Everything turns white and I drop the gun. I realize what she saw in me that day. Morty hears the gun drop and asks me, “Hey, what was that? Are you ok?” I pay no attention. Instead I go back to the day when I met Helen, her eyes looking into mine, the day she left me. Her dissatisfaction and discontent met with my own. She saw the same eyes in me and it comforted her knowing that she wasn’t alone, but it tore her apart because it was a constant reminder of her own imperfection.
My mind goes blank and I go back to the only memory I have of my father. We’re in the woods and as I zone out staring at mushy leaves at my feet, my father, without making a sound, pulls up his bow. He takes out an arrow and lines up the groove of the arrow along the string. Gripped tight with his dry fingers, he pulls back the arrow and closes his left eye. He lets go and then I hear a cry. My father and I walk up to where the deer lies, about 10 yards out. The arrow had hit the deer in his side. It’s still alive. I stare as it bleeds out the remnants of its life. My father goes up to the deer and grabs his arrow and plunges it deeper into the deer as it gives out its final cries. All I can remember is the blood. Like that of a sacrificial lamb pouring onto the altar of the forest floor.

Thoughts on The Gagman

2010-09-26T18:25:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about the story and its meaning. Going through it in my head, I decided listing the events in order to organize my thoughts. Maybe it's just a reminder to me that this character needs to feel real for me to keep writing about him. Or just something to keep me busy while I'm at this sort of roadblock. Either way, my thoughts.

 The Waiter isn't the confrontational type. He'll look at the girl of his dreams from a distance, but he'll never approach her. He looks through life from a glass window, that his true dreams aren't reachable.
 But where does this start? With himself and his insecurities. He's not handsome, nor strong. He's not smooth or charming. He works nights and watches the world enjoy themselves, all while serving them.
 He encounters a villain that scares him. That punishes him and makes him weak. That forces him to be bold out of survival and that's what he wants more than anything, to live.
 He fails, many times. He tries to do what the villain demands. He sets out to find girls for him. Timidness hurts his chances. He musters up the courage and with a little luck finds them. He finds his ticket home.
 That's not a success. Because even though he does his job and keeps his life, he doesn't get respect. That is when his love gets in danger.
 He finds the courage to protect her the best he can. At first he watches her, he buys time. He drinks and becomes reckless. His emotions flare. The villain tries to take advantage of her. He finds it in him to do something. He trips on a bottle and does something else. It works.
 He saves the girl, but at the cost of his own life. The villain wants to kill him. The girl that never noticed him, notices. He wins her respect, her love. That saves him.
 His fear awaits him outside. He's found a second wind. He's confident, he will win or lose with nobility. He leaves.
 The villain cheats, he brings an army. The Waiter panics. All the confidence disappears. He's back to surviving. He tries to run. It doesn't work. He's alone and desperate.
 Out of survival he uses the tools he's got. Fire. The army backs off. It's only a matter of time, but it sure is goddamn tough holding in this gasoline.
 He breaks. He ingests. He falls to his knees. He gets kicked, they laugh. He's defeated by his own clumsiness. He throws up on the villains' shoes, unintentional and insulting.
 The villain is angry, angrier than he was. He stands in place for a towel; the army breaks him harder. The Waiter is weak. He sees a fire, the one he started out with, the one filled with confidence. The vomit ignites.
 The stream leads to the villain. His feet catch fire and he begins to dance. He falls. The army retreats to help their general. They kick the fire. They kick the villain.
 Screeching tires make its way to the Waiter. A godsend. She opens the door; he gets in.
 The fire is seen from the rear view mirror. The commotion is out there but not in here. Here he is safe. He's found his confidence, in her.

The Gagman (Draft) Edit 1

2010-07-30T09:33:00.000-07:00

Email me for the script: songsj@vcu.edu

k thx

Security Training: Morning

2010-04-21T13:37:00.000-07:00

EXT. CITYSCAPE – DAWN

The city is revealed from the morning dawn.

INT. ROOM – DAWN

The morning sun creeps through the blinds. Clothes are scattered throughout the room. A pair of used underwear hangs on a lamp, the light still on. The body on the bed is out cold, the remnants of an eventful night.

The clock changes to 8:00 a.m. The alarm sounds. The body begins to shift slightly; a hand comes out and tries to swat the alarm clock, but misses continually.

INT. KITCHEN – DAWN

The beeping of the alarm clock echoes through the wall. BRIAN is sitting eating a full breakfast at the kitchen table. He is wearing a dress shirt and tie, ready for the day. The alarm finally shuts off. Brian puts down his breakfast and gets up.

INT. OUTSIDE MARCUS’ DOOR – DAWN

Brian knocks on MARCUS’ door.

BRIAN

Hey Marcus, it’s time to wake up.

MARCUS

…
(Incoherent noises)

BRIAN

Marcus, I said it’s time to get up. You have class in an hour.
MARCUS

15 more minutes Mom… (Mumbles)

BRIAN

(Sigh)

Brian sits back down at the table and eats. There’s stumbling in Marcus’ room and a loud bang as he falls out of bed. He stumbles to open the door and walks into the bathroom to pee, leaving the door open. Brian looks over at the bathroom and takes a break from his meal. Marcus flushes than comes into the kitchen.

MARCUS

What a night!

BRIAN

Yeah, some Tuesday night it was.

MARCUS

I invited you to come out, but you were in your room all night!

BRIAN

I was sleeping…

MARCUS

That’s lame.

BRIAN

Yeah. I had work in the morning.

MARCUS

Oh that’s right, your new job. What are the hours?

BRIAN

I have to be there from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m.

MARCUS

That sucks, your whole day is pretty much wasted. Are you busting tables or something?

BRIAN

No…I’m going to be training as a security guard in the freshman dorms.

MARCUS

You look like a waiter man.

BRIAN

Heh, well I just want to make a good first impression.

MARCUS

Dressed like that, you could cater the needs of anyone.

BRIAN

(Laughs) Very funny.

BRIAN

Alright, I have to get going. Aren’t you going to get dressed?

Marcus goes over to put on his shoes.

MARCUS

Done.

Brian chuckles and leaves the apartment.

The New World

2010-04-13T19:46:00.000-07:00

The Final Frontier. It has always been Earth's mission, to discover what is beyond. With technology, that goal has become attainable, and brought with it Earth's greatest inventions. Transportation for people and the transportation of ideas. But soon discovered is a place no man has gone before. The human mind. Over the last decade, Vizion has developed a revolutionary online experience. The New World. Users enter an alternate reality for adventure or leisure; a community where society is equal in every way. Visceral, Virtual, Vitality, it is an out of body experience only imagined in dreams...

...and in The New World you can live in them.

Security Training: Opening Scene (Narrator)

2010-04-11T18:47:00.000-07:00

Read, give feedback. Sorry Wes if I blew your entry away under this one, it was not my intention. More coming soon.

EXT. COLLEGE CAMPUS – DAY

College students are walking in every direction to class.

NARRATOR

In every college campus, there are those that stand out. At first glance they may appear normal, the average college student, but with a closer look they are different.

INT. CLASSROOM – MORNING

A professor is giving a lecture in front of the class. Across a row, students listen inattentively – a girl at the end of the row digs furiously into her textbook. The professor poses a question to the class. The class seems reluctant to participate; an eager hand is raised by the girl. The class turns to see who it is. She gives the correct answer with ease. The professor acknowledges her, and writes it on the dry erase board. The students turn back to the professor. (One of the students goes back to sleep)

NARRATOR

These individuals you may encounter either day or night, on the streets or in the classrooms, rain or shine. They are hard working, excelling in whatever they do.

INT. DINING HALL – DAY

A cashier takes the cash of a two guys buying food. The two guys go to a table to sit down and have lunch. One guy is playing with his food. He takes a pea off his plate and throws it in the air, then catches it with his mouth. His friend motions for him to throw him one, and he does; he catches it and stands up in celebration, then begins to choke. His friend panics and doesn’t know what to do. The cashier quickly grabs the guy choking and performs the Heimlich maneuver and he spits the pea out. In relief, his friend comes over and thanks the cashier; the guy saved thanks the cashier with an exhausted look.

NARRATOR

They are the first to act, when help is in need, they do not hesitate. They are the heroes that put other people above themselves. They are your campus Security Guards.

EXT. COLLEGE CAMPUS – DAY

College students stop to see a homeless man run with a purse. A student is on his pursuit and tackles him to the ground. The homeless man drops the purse and scatters to retreat. A fearful girl approaches the scene and stops. A purse is handed to her. The guy stands tall and applause is motioned from the students nearby.

INT. LIVING ROOM – NIGHT

A cozy room is warmed by a fireplace. A man is sitting in a comfy seat.

NARRATOR

Hardworking, Responsible, Leadership. These are the characteristics that define a Security Guard. Welcome to Security Training. Those of you that are sitting here today have been chosen because you have stood out among the many.

As a Security Guard, these characteristics will help you along the way, but this is only the beginning. There are many different elements to the job, which you will learn today in this training video. Knowing procedures, conduct, and customer service will be necessary to do your job well.

Every security desk has a security manual, where you will find all there is to know about Dormitory Security. Now, I could sit here and read to you all the procedures and try to be as specific as possible, but that would only tell you what’s on paper, no other interpretation but literal facts. Though knowing is half the answer, only through experience will you get complete understanding. That is why I won’t read this to you, or show you a PowerPoint, even if I did spend all last night making it. Instead, I will tell you a story of a Guard named Brian. Brian was a new guard, much like most of you sitting here today, and through his time as a Security Guard, he had learned a great deal of the job. He was a boy with a heart of gold, eager to take on responsibilities, even when sometimes they were greater than he could handle. What do I mean by that? Well, you’ll just have to see for yourself.

It all started on his first day as a Dormitory Security Guard…

Allen's Story, pt 1.

2010-04-11T09:34:00.000-07:00

Allen woke up with a lazy start -- he didn't have to be at work in the morning, so he let himself sleep in a bit. It helped assuage the hangover. Why am I hung over, anyways? He looked around his room to find clues as to how the night went -- button up on the floor by the door, still buttoned. Jeans at the foot of the bed. Wallet on the desk, keys in the chair, pack of cigarettes in the ash tray and cell phone... cell phone? Just then, a ringing came from under the pillow, which Allen approached to answer dutifully. The cell phone still new, so he didn't realize that the ringing was just an alarm. Nine? It's nine in the morning? He double checked with the clock just to make sure. Indeed, it was only nine. Suddenly the tale of the night had come full circle.

For most people, it only takes one alarm to wake up. For Allen, it takes three. For most people, after they've been up for 13-20 hours, sleep finds them. For Allen, wakefulness begins to show it's face. For most people, getting drunk and passing out goes hand-in-hand with waking up late. For Allen, it means waking up as soon as his body becomes sober.

Trying to make the best of his time, Allen cleans his room... not in the tidiest sense, but enough that it doesn't look particularly messy or dirty. Having lived alone for so long, he'd collected a lot of things to occupy his time... Where did this come from? Allen moved his wallet to find a poker card hiding underneath. King of spades...

action

2010-02-11T12:22:00.001-08:00

joe woke up the next day with an uncertainty in

his stomach. he wandered the school walking from

class to class with a nervousness about what would

happen after school. he played numerous fantasies

throughout his head. would she fall in love with

him? that was the one fantasy that kept reoccuring

in his mind. he didn't know why. not many boys of

joe's age were dreaming of marriage and love, but

joe was. anna woke up with dread fearing that if

the day didn't go as she expected she would be at

a crossroads in her life. she didn't know what she

would do if joe refused her or even worse, tell

everyone about her failed attempts of making an

interactive adult site. that was what she liked to

call it. it sounded professional.

the school day ended and joe went on his bus

without stopping by the front of the school where

his friends would usually share the day's gossip

and happenings with one another. anna walked by

the front of the school and saw joe's group of

friends stare at her as they talked about her and

who she would be with next. she found the 11 bus

and got on, looking for joe. joe saw her, but did

not give eye contact; he waited for her to find

him. anna saw joe looking through the window and

sat down in the empty seat next to him. "hey," she

said. "hey," joe answered back. they sat in

silence while the other kids looked at the odd

couple. joe, who never so much talked to another

girl, sitting next to the girl, anna, who had

talked amongst other things with many boys.

joe's parents weren't home that afternoon. every

friday was a date night; they would go out and

watch a movie, walk around, eat dinner, and go

home late at night. joe had the house to himself

until usually 10 or 11, which was convenient for

anna. joe invited anna up to his room and turned

on his computer. he had no idea what to say, but

remembered that anna said she would tell him what

kind of website she wanted. so as the computer

warmed up joe asked anna, "so, what kind of

website did you want?" anna held her breath and

she had practiced what she was going to say to joe

during the day. it went alright in her head, but

this was real now and the uncertainty rang in her

voice as she choked on her own breath and coughed

to clear her throat.
"um, well it would be a site about me."
"like a blog or something?" joe asked.
"well, i would be selling something."
"like clothes or jewelry?"
"no, like... i would be selling videos and

pictures of me."
"are you famous?"
"haha. no, like it would be like... have you ever

seen those websites that girls have that post

pictures of themselves and videos of themselves

doing stuff."
"like adult stuff?" joe knew exactly what anna was

talking about and tried to play it cool, but felt

his temperature rising.
"yeah."
it was all out in the open now. anna and joe were

at a point of no return. anna put all her hope in

joe at that moment. joe without much hesitation,

but only a pause of silence answered, "ok."
anna rejoiced at joe's answer, but also what that

answer implied. joe was willing to take a risk

with anna and that was enough for her to be happy.

joe built the website whenever anna came over on

fridays. joe did extra "research" for the site in

his spare time. the school was puzzled with this

odd couple wondering when joe would dump anna or

if this was going to last any more than a few

weeks, but this faded with time as they appeared

as any boring couple. joe paid attention to the

rumors because his friends would ask him and joe

would always deny it all with a head shake. anna

didn't care what the school thought, so she

continued on as normal. when girls asked her what

was going on with joe, anna would reply with a

sharp, "why do you care?" and that was that.

anna came over one friday and joe said that the

site was basically done. the only things missing

were the products. this was the tricky part. anna

didn't mention to joe that she wanted and needed

him to be the camera for her. she had no webcam at

home and the computer was a family one, which she

was only allowed to use for schoolwork. and she

gave schoolwork as the reason that she wouldn't be

home on friday until late. her parents thought it

odd, but were relieved that anna spent her fridays

doing schoolwork rather than going out and wasting

money. when joe said that the website was finished

anna gave him a look that said he wasn't finished.
"hey, joe. i'm really glad that you did this for

me. thank you so much."
"yeah, no problem. is there anything else that you

wanted me to do?"
"ha. well, actually there is. and it's kind of a

big thing, but i would pay you for it."
"i mean it's cool. you don't have to pay me. how

big a thing can it be? haha."
"haha. well see i don't have a webcam at home and

i'm only allowed to use the camera for schoolwork,

so..."
"oh, i see."
"yeah."
"you want me to buy you a webcam?"
"haha, no. i was wondering if i could do all that

stuff here and that if you would do that for me."
"oh. um. i..." joe stuttered and mumbled because

of the sudden realization that his fantasy may

soon becoming reality and he wasn't sure if he was

ready for that yet. yet, as he stumbled for words

he knew the answer that he was leaning towards, so

he stuttered back a,"uh, y-y-yeah, sure. i think i

can do that."
anna was happy, but nervous about revealing

herself physically and emotionally to joe. she had

done so before with many other boys, but she had

never met anyone like joe. someone so closed off.

she didn't know anything about joe except that he

seemed nice and wanted to help her for some

unknown reason.

joe was nervous. he had never been alone with a

girl in such an intimate setting. she would be

posing for pictures first to decorate the site.

and joe was pacing back and forth as anna was in

his bathroom changing. what if his parents decided

to come back home early or what if he panicked and

freaked out when anna started taking her clothes

off. what would he do then? he didn't want to be

dirty, he didn't want to feel unclean, like some

sleazy producer. but that's exactly how he felt

right now. he felt guilt pouring over him and as

he was about to tell anna that he couldn't do it,

she stepped out of the bathroom wearing shorts

that could pass as underwear and a white,

strapless, see-through tank top. joe's guilt was

devoured by his lustful desires and he stared at

her as she asked him, "are you ready?"
"yeah," joe managed. he started taking pictures

and made some suggestions for her poses like a

veteran playboy photographer. he caught his breath

as she started taking off her tank top and told

her, "no, wait. stop." anna stopped and looked

concerned as she saw joe look away from her. he

turned around and adjusted his pants to hide his

excitement. he took a deep breath and asked her if

she was sure if she wanted to do this. anna, in

her small voice, said, "yes." joe turned around

and anna began to take more off. joe's heartbeat

raised higher and higher as anna unfolded in front

of him. his lust burned brighter as more fuel was

added to the flame. anna saw that what she was

doing to joe and found comfort in that all boys,

including joe, were the same when it came to their

desires.

samson

2010-02-04T13:33:00.001-08:00

His hair was long. Unbelievably long. It went down his chest almost to his belly button. Samson’s hair was never as long as it was since then. When was this? I think it was about three months ago give or take. It was around the end of summer, so maybe it was August or September if you define the end of summer by when you can’t wear shorts anymore. Yeah, I couldn’t believe it either. That long. No, not the length of his hair, the length of his relationship. Yeah, what you don’t know? You can tell if Samson is in a relationship or not by the length of his hair. So if he has a shaved head with little to no hair then he’s a new man, single. If it’s been growing out a bit, maybe three or four weeks then he’s on the hunt, but if you see him with a full head of hair, like Fabio hair, then yeah, it’s on. Who was he with? Well that’s a long story. It goes back into his other relationships, actually it goes back into his name. How much time you got? Alright. Sit down, we’re going to be here for a while.

When Samson was born he was born with a full head of hair. Don’t believe me? I’m not sure if it’s true either, but that’s what he tells everyone. That might explain why his hair grows so fast. That might explain why his parents named him Samson. He grew up with long hair and he said he got his first haircut when he was 12, right around the time he went through puberty. Yeah, that’s what he said. I don’t know if it’s true, but it adds to his legend. Now he started getting trims for his hair, but it grew back within a week or two, so that’s when he started to just have it shaved off altogether. You can call it chance or fate or God, but when he first shaved his head, that’s when he met Joanna.

Joanna was a little older than Samson and she was in a league of her own. She had all the looks of a model, but she didn’t give anything up without a fight. If you asked out this girl you had to ask her out at least a dozen times before she would even think about saying yes. But that’s where it was different with Samson. She actually wanted to hang out with him. She asked him out, basically. And so begins the real story.

Joanna was around 14 while Samson was turning 13, but they were inseparable. She was headstrong and didn’t care what anyone else thought except for Samson. He would listen to her and he did what she told him to do, but not because he was scared. The only reason Samson listened to Joanna was because he wanted to. He wanted to be with her and whenever Joanna would get into one of her moods or rants about how much she hated being told what to do, Samson would stay cool, ask her if she needed anything. That would trip me out if I saw a screaming girl and a boy responding to her like that. But that’s Samson for you. Now his hair was growing out this whole time and he didn’t care much about it. But he figured that it was time for a cut, so he was with Joanna one day and told her that he was going to go get his hair cut. Joanna, unbeknownst that she was about to set off something in Samson that if she knew what were to happen she would’ve taken it back instantly, said, “Good.” Samson says that that was the first time in his life that he ever felt such an intense anger that he didn’t know what to do or how to react. He just stood there, little 12 year old Samson, shaking in fury. He wouldn’t say a word to Joanna after that. He just off and disappeared and refused to see her anymore. Now of course if anyone else did this to Joanna she would be just equally as furious, but because of the mystery and the fact that Samson was angry for the first time with the reason being her, she tried repeatedly to apologize. Samson would hear none of it. Joanna stopped reaching out and Samson moved that year to another state, so that was the end of that, but the beginning of what we now know as the “ritual.”

The “ritual” was begun by Samson after that time when he met another girl, but he didn’t really last long with her, so I can’t recall the name. But what he would do is whenever he started a new relationship he would grow his hair and when the relationship ended he would shave it off to begin again. Yeah that’s what I asked, what happened if he shaved his head and he didn’t get into a relationship for a while. But that’s never been the case with Samson. Sure enough a week or two after shaving his head he would be with another girl. Without fail, he would find a girl before his hair even knew what was going on. It’s been like that for about 10 years. Yeah I know where does he find this many girls to even go out with. I don’t know, but that’s the way it’s always been until about a year ago.

The Road Ahead

2010-01-07T22:16:00.000-08:00

foreword: i've been remissed from writing lately so i apologize if things flow.. awkwardly.

I've been stuck in a rut lately; the logical side of me tells me to keep doing what i'm doing, that my paycheck is grand, regardless of the hours and the bull, because my upbringing keeps on telling me to be thankful and that the fact that anyone pays me any attention at all is a miracle in itself.

However, i keep finding myself unhappy where i'm at. at some point, i lost the will to pursue. i always wanted to strive to be better, to be successful, but the desire to actually go through with it, to leave my comfort zone -- to just dive into whatever may be -- was lost somewhere in just how comfortable i am. this is true in any industry; mine just happens to be culinary, where tv has taught us all to be cut throat and vulgar.

The last couple of weeks, i've been fortunate enough to reconnect with old friends and reminisce about the past. usually for me that's a bad thing, but lately, it's been turning into a good thing. i recapped the entirety of my restaurant career today in a remarkable five minutes (it was a timeline of something around three to four years) and was forced to face the reality of the position that i am currently in, based upon the the history i'd left behind. it showed me that there's a need for me to move on.

The wonderful thing about looking back on your youth is being able to look back at the dreams you once had, but the more rewarding thing is being able to see how innocently determined we were, at all the possibilies we saw before we had to shoulder the burden of the world of responsibiliy and practicality.. i realize now that practicality doesn't necessarily lead to success. for some i'm sure it does, but if i want to look back and see success, i have to be impractical. i have to be impractical, because i have goals set before me that i set because when i have children and i'm trying to tell them to achieve, i don't want to tell them to learn from the mistakes that i made in youth -- i want to be able to look back and tell them that their father achieved so much with so little, and became the person he is because of it.

looking back, i see how far i've perservered through animosity because of the desire to kick ass at what i do. sitting where i am now, i see relative success, but a general feeling of bending over and letting the world take over. i had to look back to see what i've overcome in order to see that there's still so much more to overcome in the future.

Strive to struggle a little, people, because when you're down and looking back, how much you've overcome shows you how much more there is to do.

I'm putting my two weeks in on wednesday.

again

2010-01-05T19:15:00.001-08:00

it's night, 2 people are inside. the tv is off. the only light on is the living room light. a boy is sitting on the couch looking skeptical and a girl is sitting next to him looking a bit nervous.

boy: how was your day?
girl: it was fine. i didn't do anything. what about you?
boy: yeah, i woke up early, but i didn't get to do much of what i had hoped.
girl: what did you want to do?
boy: i don't know. you know, be productive?
girl: haha
boy: listen, you know why i called you?
girl: same reason why i picked up?
::pause::
boy: well, the last few weeks have been a little bit weird.
girl: what do you mean?
boy: like, it's not the same, you know what i mean?
girl: the same as what, before?
boy: yeah, it used to be better, you know?
girl: yeah.
boy: remember when we tried to watch spiderman 3, but it was sold out, so we bought tickets to another movie and just went into spiderman 3.
girl: haha, yeah. when people started sitting on the stairs i felt like some sort of imposter sitting in their seats.
boy: haha. that was a long time ago. and it hasn't been the same since.
girl: i know. i think we're headed in the same direction.
boy: i hope so.
girl: i missed you.
boy: i missed you, too.
girl: back together, but are we going to stay together?
boy: i hope so.

2009-12-25T10:41:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

God bless you all.

rebirth

2009-12-08T14:30:00.001-08:00

people are reborn every day
new faces, new noses, new lips,
new chests. regenerated with
new parts because you didn't
like the ones you were born
with.

thanksgiving

2009-11-26T09:20:00.000-08:00

thank You.

in between

2009-11-07T17:53:00.000-08:00

today i went to get my second session of acupuncture; i sprained or strained my back playing basketball and it was getting better until i decided i was well enough to lift weights and play football. i wasn't well enough. so i walk in with my copy of Scar Tissue, a sex, drugs, and rock and roll memoir by Anthony Kiedis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. there are two sides of chairs facing each other; two black people were sitting on one side with a seat in between them and there are two korean people on the other side with a seat in between them. without thinking about it, i sat down between the korean people and a few minutes later i realized what i had done and remember that before i came in i saw a couple of black people in a car next to where i parked, and i had a sudden rush of fantasy involving them stealing my car. all of these negative stereotypes of black people flood into my mind as i sit there reading my book, but all of that changes as the black woman sitting across me opens her mouth. it turns out that she's African and then i relax. i don't know what it is, but African people and African-American people are completely different. a whole bunch of other African dudes walk in and sit down, and i continue reading.

a little girl runs in holding her friend's hand and says hi to her grandmother who is sitting next to me. she speaks better korean than i can and i wonder if that was how i started out as a kid. a little boy running around saying hi in the language of the motherland and i get a little sad knowing that i've lost a lot of that language. soon the waiting crowd dies down a bit and an older grandmother walks out and she slowly shuffles towards the empty seat next to me (the other grandmother switched to the other side somehow). she's a bit hunched over, has white hair, but is rocking a Coach bag as perhaps a status symbol or as if to say fashion doesn't grow old. she uses her energy sparingly and i'm honored that she uses it to sit next to me. she asks me in korean what was wrong with me. and i answered in my limited korean that my back hurt. she asked if i was a high school student. i told her i was in college and that i was 22. during the conversation she had a very soothing warmth to her voice and she put her hand on my knee just as she would to her own grandson. she went on to talk about things that i couldn't understand, but i caught the korean words for "acupuncture clinic" and "best" so i put two and two together and found that she was talking about how she looked for a good acupuncture place and that she heard that the one we were in was the best. she asked me a question that i couldn't quite answer in korean, but right when she asked the doctor called her over to give her the prescribed herbal remedies. i saw a white man come out and watched him pay the doctor for his own herbal supply, but i heard him ask, "is this one, mom's?" pointing at one of the boxes of herbal remedies, i assumed that he was either a son-in-law or some kind of caretaker, but the first seems more likely. the grandmother got up and paid for the box and she came over to put on her jacket. i said goodbye as she left and she said goodbye. as she left the little girl came back running around not knowing what to do with all the energy inside her little body.

i realize that i'm in between. in between death and life, between old and young. i'm not considered old yet, but i'm not considered as a kid either. i can't speak korean as i can english, but i know that i'm not fully american or korean. i'm in between. i look forward to looking at youths when i'm an elder. i just don't know what to do with the time between then and now.

time

2009-10-18T14:58:00.000-07:00

my sense of time has always been limited to calendars, clocks, the sun. i don't think i ever noticed i was getting older, that one day i would look my dad when he was 22, 23, 24. i don't think i ever knew that one day i would get lucky and find a girl that had enough pity on me to marry me, but that hasn't happened yet so i'm still crossing my fingers. i never understood really why my father would lecture me whenever we were alone in a car, it never hit that he was preparing me for the world, that in the world you were responsible to God, to people, and to yourself. but as the numbers increase every year i have a sense of urgency, a sense of overwhelming sadness that nothing is made to last, that everything that began will end.

we're all people getting older, we're all people that could use something, somebody, we're all people that are going to end. will our bodies become part of the earth for others to grow on, step on, cry on, love on, live on? are we just animals without souls, full of air? or are we souls trapped in bodies waiting to snatch a better one after this one dies? are we meant for eternity, to truly live, to be made new, to worship and give our all to our Creator? am i on my out? or am i on my out to something beautiful?

i feel like a child. i don't want to see my parents go, i don't want to lose my friends, my brothers, my sisters, i don't want to see my dog meet his end and know that he simply does not exist anymore. i don't want people to die without seeing life for what it is. life is a journey, a gift, a chance to truly live in eternity. life is hugging your mother, arm wrestling your father, laughing with your sister, playing guitar with your brother, watching a movie with a girl you like, awkward first kisses, lying on grass, climbing trees, taking vows, making toasts, having someone next to you in bed to keep you warm at night, helping those in need, loving those who hate, raising up hands, delighting in God, growing old, watching your kids grow old.

i can't help, but shed tears at funerals, at the thought of death. people say they're in a better place, but i'm not there with them or they with me. i cry that death is an option, that death must happen, and that people believe death is it. some days i believe the whole world deserves death and some days i believe everyone is innocent. i cry at the void that death leaves. the empty space that was once filled. they always will be refilled, but never the same. i cry at the loss of life; it was someone's father, mother, daugher, son, brother, sister, friend, lover. now there's a void where they once were. in time, we're all on our way out. in time, death is the final count.

self-sabotage

2009-10-10T07:44:00.000-07:00

I think that when those of us that will become chefs, there is a decision-making process involved that no one can really understand; it's a thought process that ultimately makes you decide that you will be the best, and that you will do whatever it takes to get there -- it's kind of a rockstar attitude, if you think about it.

Then, reality strikes. There's a lot that you don't know -- there's a lot of experience out there that you have to learn in not a lot of time. A lot of times, you overcompensate, however you can. Maybe you yell, maybe you take really basic dishes and try to get them to a point of inutterable perfection, maybe you flirt with the waitstaff. There just always has to be something that puts you on top or makes you unique from the others -- more noteworthy.

This leads to a lot of self-sabotage. With the long hours and the moments of intense stress, things get blown way out of proportion. Someone borrowing your knife suddenly becomes someone disrespecting you and yours. Long days of pent up aggression at work get taken home and hard as you might try to smile, you're surly. Other nights, you get so fed up you can't handle anything and you end up wanting to be anywhere but in bed. You lose friends, because you don't they understand, and you gain drinking buddies, because they always do.

Then, when it's quiet, you check yourself and see what you have left in your reserves.

If you come up with a little bit left, you invest it. You find something precious to you and you invest it and pray that in the long run, the investment will blossom with your career. If you come up empty, you find that at the end of the day, the best things you have in your life are your knives.

-w

2009-10-10T07:42:00.000-07:00

I was bored the other day when i decided to stop by my mother's house; i had three loads of laundry to do at my apartment, which translates to one load and nine dollars saved at hers.

The house itself doesn't feel like home anymore, but there's still a nostalgic familiarity to it -- pictures on the wall, places where memories were made, etc. At some point, i found myself in my old room, rummaging through little things that i'd left in the closet. I'd left some sheet music, a couple old magazines, yo-yos and the like.. I'd forgotten that i'd left memoirs from ex-girlfriends on the top shelf.

The thing about high school is the overwhelming sincerity; every girl is "the" girl, and every that you do is the most important thing in the world, as well as completely justifiable, every time.

One was a photo frame from my first prom; she was in maroon, and each picture had managed to catch her with the biggest, most genuine smile I'd seen in a long time. I haven't talked to her since we broke up the summer before she went to college, so the memory and pictures are all i have left of her. On top of this picture frame was a little green box, where i had kept all of her letters that she ever wrote to me. Who writes letters nowadays, anyway?

However, the most jarring was a little styrofoam container. it sat quietly as i looked at a young me smiling proudly with the love of my life at the time. It finally caught my eye at some point because the words on it caught my peripherals.

"why do you build me up, build me up, buttercup, baby, just to let me down.." read one side. the rest of the box was covered with the lyrics as well; on the top, was a message that told me she hoped my SAT's went well and the like, and had made me a cupcake, which was carried by the container.. Things were so innocent at the time. I thought back, and realized that she was the most appreciative and giving girlfriend i had ever had, and also the one that i had broken up with over the worst reason (in retrospect, of course).

We're also facebook friends. She's engaged now.

It wasn't the jealousy that sent me whirling over who i was and what i was looking for in the next couple of days, but it was the sudden awareness of just how much time had passed and what i had learned since that time. Suddenly, it's time to get things in order, time to pull friends that i had pushed away, back, and time to stop dwelling on the past.

I'm never going to be able to remember anything about the cupcake, though.

-w (copied and pasted from my track records blog)

evolution 2

2009-09-28T08:50:00.000-07:00

i believe the greatest potential in a person is to change.

i am not who i was when i was 17. nearly 5 years have gone by and i have no regrets in my past that haunt me, no future that i know of. all i have is now. another 5 years will pass and i will look back to say that i am not who i was when i was 22.

when did this start? us getting old? remember us hanging out at fast food joints, looking for something to do, something to say, something to laugh about? we thought we were invincible, immortal. i thought that once you hit a certain age you would grow up. like pushing a button. or winning a prize, receiving a present. if you make it to 30 you get a wife and 2 kids, congratulations. you made it. you lived your life, now help your kids make it to 30, and repeat.

what happened to our dreams? surely they were just dreams. but we had them, we had hopes for something different. isn't there more to life than eating? than drinking? than wearing fine clothes? than making a million, shiny stones, sleeping with strange women.

don't we have something to say? or have we grown up just to be fed? adults that do what rich people say. buying and doing what the media tells us to do so they can make money off their lies and so we can live in ignorance.

isn't it all chaos? isn't it all purposeful? you must choose one or the other. either the world is mad going in circles or the world is faithful and going towards the end.

it's nothing or something. what have you got to lose.

boy meets girl

2009-09-28T08:48:00.000-07:00

in all reality joe would never have talked or gotten close to anna. joe was content with his circumstance; he had grown numb to any guilt or shame that he experienced after every release. and anna was lonelier than she had ever been, but had discovered the other side of internet pornography. she had discovered that there were girls with websites that showed videos and pictures of them naked and performing sexual acts. there were levels of intensity ranging from fetishes to hardcore acts. anna wasn't shocked that the girls would do these things, but of the overwhelming attention that each of these girls received as a result of their websites. anna decided to try it out, but had no idea on how to start a website. joe spent all day and night on his computer so inevitably he picked up some tricks and decided to take computer science classes in school. it happened one day that anna walked in to the computer science classroom after school to ask the teacher on how to start a website. it also happened that on rare occasion joe was in the classroom making up work that he had missed on a "sick" day. he had spent that morning burning with desire and decided to lie to his parents and called in sick. one may say that God brought these two together for good purposes, one may call it
fate or destiny, others will call it luck, but this was the day that boy met girl.

"hello, i had some questions about starting up a website," anna said to the teacher. she was a little nervous in asking, wondering if the teacher knew her true intentions and would tell her to repent and sin no more. but there was no such response; the teacher, too busy helping another student, pointed to joe and said, "oh, umm, i'm a little busy, honey. i'm sorry. but that young man over there can help you out. joe's handy with that stuff." the teacher went back to helping the student while anna looked over at joe. joe always brought his headphones to class so he could listen to music while working. at that moment he was listening to a radiohead song called, "nude." joe was falling into a trance thinking about the lyrics to the song.
"don't get any / big ideas / they're not going to happen / you paint yourself white / and fill up with noise / but there'll be something missing / now that you've found it / it's gone / now that you feel it / you don't / you've gone off the rails / so don't get any / big ideas / they're not gonna happen / you'll go to hell / for what your / dirty mind / is thinking."
joe snapped out of his trance as soon as the last line was sung. he saw a reflection off his monitor and turned around to see that anna was behind him. joe didn't know what to say. in front of him was the girl that his friends had warned him of, but he wasn't scared or appalled. he was intrigued and surprised that the girl in front of him was, indeed, that girl. anna was beautiful, but she did not exude the confidence or pride that many beautiful girls thought they had the right to as goddesses. anna gave off the aura of a common girl, a humble innocence that joe couldn't understand. anna stared at joe's facial features; he was good looking though only when one got a good look at him. at first impression anna thought that joe looked rather mean and then she looked into his eyes and saw that not only that there was a certain beauty to them, but that there was an emptiness that she wanted to fill. anna felt secure when she looked at joe, not because he had confidence, but because she felt joe's potential to forgive. joe felt vulnerable as she was standing in front of him; she was like a dirty mirror that had to be wiped off to see the reflection of your soul. he felt a pang of dark hopelessness as he looked into her eyes because he wa reminded of his own shame and guilt that he had thought he lost so long ago. "joe? hi, my name is anna. i was hoping that you could help me." joe winked his eyes a few times and said, "oh. hi. i'm joe," he had already said this as he realized that she knew what his name was. he quickly recovered with, "so what do you need help with?" "um. i want to start a website, but i'm not sure how to or even where to begin." "oh, ok. umm. can i ask what kind of website?" "oh... it's a personal website." "what do you mean?" "well, it's for me." "you mean like a blog or something?" "oh no. it's... well... could you just tell me how to start one?" "oh yea, sorry, i guess i can help you with that." anna sat down and joe took her through basic steps to starting a website, but the directions grew more complicated as time went on and anna got more and more confused. there was so much detail that there was no way anna could learn all this in a short time so she decided to take a chance.
chance. "actually, do you want to make the website for me? i can pay you, well not now, but later." "uhh, i'm not sure if i could really do that." joe had no doubt in his ability, but was unsure of what form the payment would come in. was he ready to finally give into his desire for flesh like his friends and was he ready to give himself to anna? anna replied, "oh, please. i really can pay you. i need this." joe felt some compassion for anna and was willing to go without payment, but answered with a "ok." anna asked, "can you do it anywhere or does it have to be in the school?" "it can be anywhere. i can do it at my house if you want." "ok, great! so do you have time tonight? or is that too soon?" "well, i guess i can start tomorrow, but i kind of have to know, what kind of website do you want to start?" anna was afraid of involving joe or anyone from the start of this endeavor because of the high risk that she would be denied or betrayed. but anna was honest and she knew someone would find out sooner or later so she replied with, "i'll tell you tomorrow. is it ok if i come over then?" joe was a little nervous in having anna over his house, but could not fight the fact that his fantasy was extending into reality as he spoke to anna. "sure, ok. how about after school?" "sounds good, i'll meet you on your bus." "ok, cool. it's number 11." "ok, then. see you tomorrow. thanks." joe was left sitting and wondering what could happen the next day as anna thought about how the next day would either be the beginning or the end.

Because sometimes you need a push.

2009-07-30T22:55:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time; I'll be the first to admit that. Part of being responsible is accepting sacrifice; learning to be responsible is to learn to sacrifice the right things. Great leaders make great sacrifices.

What do I really want to write about? Writing's usually a reflection... My reflection's been murky lately. I look in the mirror and I see dark circles -- creases that will be making their permanent homes on my face long before any chubby fingers will ever explore them with any real meaning. Long before anything under this roof will be filled with anything but aimlessness and yearning.

I've learned that some things count for nothing, and that the future is nothing you can count on. I've learned that past personal decisions are things to learn from and change, not forget. I've learned that a good work ethic is something that will always keep you on top. I've also learned that in the right position, work ethic doesn't matter.

-w

The Day

2009-07-14T05:12:00.000-07:00

The day starts with me getting off work, another late night shift of missing a good night's rest. I don't mind anymore because I've gotten used to it, the morning sun gives me a second wind of energy, it's invigorating. I'm home and sitting in front of my computer for the next two hours contemplating staying up, forgetting about sleep. Maybe I'll fix my sleeping schedule finally. I'll stay up and get burnt out by the end of the day and sleep sound fully at night. I realize I work again at midnight and don't get off till six a.m. Another wasted attempt, I crawl into bed and try to sleep. I wake up around six in the afternoon and notice I am hungry. My hunger doesn't come first before my bladder. It also doesn't come before a few hours of internet. I sit there entranced at the bright screen. It gets dark. I decide it is the appropriate time to eat my first meal. I eat, shower and go to work. My coworkers all bring their laptops. During the summer there aren't many residents, a few conferences, summer school students, an uneventful building. Occasionally we'll play poker, usually we're on our laptops. Tonight I decided I'll leave mine at home and open my notebook to write. I write a sentence. It isn't clear usually, it's a feeling I have of the moment. It's a sentence that makes more sense in my head than on paper. I stare at it and think more. I can't write anymore. I can never write anymore than this. I wonder why.

you're welcome

2009-07-10T12:35:00.001-07:00

www.readprint.com

a good boy is hard to find

2009-07-04T08:06:00.000-07:00

anna was a year above joe and she wasn't the prettiest girl, but she had a radiance about her. what she lacked in physical beauty she compensated with her charm and she was confident in her demeanor, but never felt as if she was above anyone. although she would be the first to strike up conversation she wasn't insistent or overbearing. she knew the right things to say; she knew how to respond to each kind of person learning different mannerisms and gestures to attract people especially boys. anna did not get along with the girls in her class because of this and she had few girl friends whose sole purupose in befriending anna was to learn her secret in attracting boys, but they did not realize that to anna it wasn't so much a secret than it was just knowing that all people were lonely in one way or another.

anna longed for friendship, for acceptance. many boys accepted her, but for her touch not her heart. anna's girl friends kept a distance from her because they did not fully understand her motives, so they kept close enough to study her interactions with boys and their conversations revolved around that subject, but they didn't care for her company. anna hated to be alone; she needed to be outside her house, to be with someone, and if it had to be a boy she did not mind as long as she could have his attention because attention was one of the symptoms of the love that she longed to catch. the love that anna desired was not a romantic love, but a pure love, something that would last and replace the desperation developing inside of her. she did not want to give up her physical purity, but felt as if she had no choice. for pure love she would sacrifice anything including her flesh.

anna would spend time with a few boys at a time testing to see who seemed most genuine. she didn't know that to them it was a test of endurance and of who wanted it the most. anna would wait until she saw something in one that she did not see in the others, an emptiness, a desperation like hers. she often mistaked a boy's fiery lust for emptiness and she would say, "i need you." and that was it. after the boy got what he wanted he would move on while anna, heartbroken, would mourn in silence until the next boy came along. she was left feeling more desperate than before and that loneliness would outweigh her shame, so much so that she would repeat this cycle of looking for boys and giving herself away.

one day anna was watching television and she turned to a news special about a man who had been crippled by a drunk driver. the man was testifying in court and the drunk driver was present. she watched footage from the court as the man limped up to the drunk driver he held out his hand and looking up to the Heavens he said to the drunk driver, "i forgive you." the drunk driver broke down and threw his arms around the man as the man embraced him back. anna could not contain herself and she broke out in tears uncontrollably. she sobbed and sobbed repeating the words to herself, "i forgive you, i forgive you." she thought about the story and the words every time she slept with a boy and sometimes would cry during or after scaring the boys. soon word spread about the "sob slut" and very few of the boys wanted anything to do with her.

that was until she met joe...

a good girl is hard to find

2009-04-18T14:56:00.000-07:00

nipples. that's what joe thought of when he was bored. every girl he met in school became a new fantasy and every night he would fall asleep to these fantasies. he wasn't a deviant by any means; no, when he fantasied he fantasied about marrying these girls and making love to them on their honeymoon. he wasn't like the other boys ranking each girl by a numerical value or filtering the girls into the "yeah, i'd tap that" category. in fact, joe was a virgin himself, and had never had a girlfriend. he just found these games to be below him and believed that every girl deserved to be in one of his fantasies. he walked around choosing who he would fall asleep to tonight. in his mind he was justified in having sex with these girls in his mind because in his mind he was married to every girl he met or looked at, and there was nothing wrong about that. he would lay in his bed or sit in his chair at his computer and consumate his marriage to his thoughts of these girls.

the girls on his computer screen were real to him; they were his perfect girlfriend. they wanted him and he wanted them. they gave him what he wanted and did not judge him; they became useful objects to him just as a toilet or sink was to him. to joe these girls were as real to him as were his fantasies. he would love them in his mind, flush them out of his mind when he was done, and he'd wash his hands clean of it ready to look for another. but sometimes ever so slightly he would feel guilt. the guilt did not last more than a few moments after his release, but it was still there. he wrote it off as the remnants of a man-made society of ethics and morals that suppressed human desire, but were today outdated and irrelevant. society had said that pornography was "smut" and was turning people into perverts. but joe knew that all people were animals and animals were carnal.

in middle school he remembers how the girls came of age, by giving blowjobs to their crushes in the dark corners of the theatre or outside the trailers of the school. he remembered how he was walking out of the theatre after a preview of Romeo and Juliet and how ashley was doing it to johnny in the back near the emergency doors. he remembered how he walked past them and the fire in johnny's eyes and the fire that sparked inside of himself. teachers caught them and joe remembers what his mother said to him, "back in my day we'd at least make a game out of it; spin a bottle or something, but you kids are straight to the point!" and she left it at that. his father commented on how the sex ed program wasn't doing enough. joe found out about the internet soon after through a guy named eric. they had gotten detention for cursing in class and weren't allowed to talk for an hour after school so they decided to practice reading lips. eric mouthed curse words and after he got it out of his system he mouthed, "i went on the internet and saw two naked ladies having sex." at least that's what joe thought eric said. then one day zack brought a sports illustrated magazine to school: the swimsuit edition. "i tried to sneak it in my backpack, but my dad caught me and i thought i was going to get beat for sure, but he said, 'oh, you're into that stuff now, huh zack?' and he let me take it." that was it for joe, he went home and complained to his mom that all the schoolwork now was easy to do because everyone had internet and they didn't. he even remarked to his mother that one kid brought a watch to school that could go on the internet. he didn't mention to his mother that they had tried to go on playboy.com with it, but failed.

joe remembers how he was watching tv one day and pamela anderson took her clothes off to be funny on SNL, but joe didn't laugh. he wanted to know what was behind the censors so he went to connect his dial-up phone line and went on the internet. he waited in anticipation as the images loaded slowly, but surely. nipples, then vagina. he remembers the blood rush, his heartbeat, rubbing himself later that night to an explosive climax. he scared the hell out of himself, wondering what the milky substance that came out of his penis was. it wasn't urine and he thought of glue and wanted to throw up. he felt the guilt strongest then. he went to sleep that night thinking of fully dressed girls in Catholic school uniforms. later he remembers going into the bathroom thinking of naked women and the tension he needed to release. he stroked himself wondering if this was how urine was churned into semen like milk was to butter. he remembers the euphoric, enlightening pleasure. he wanted to feel like this all the time. he came home after school every day and went into the basement to surf television channels for women who showed any bit of flesh. if his mother was out he would go into the living room surfing through hundreds of pictures that he committed to memory so he could recall them for later.

joe remembers how he asked his parents to move the computer upstairs into his room so he could focus on schoolwork more and for cable internet so he could work efficiently. his parents did not touch the computer and agreed because it would not make sense to turn down a boy's birthday wishes to do better in school. joe would come home every day and finish his work and spend the rest of the time finding new things. he found hardcore pornography which disgusted him, but hooked him at the same time. he felt nauseous and sick when he saw the moneyshots and wondered if women really enjoyed this. after a while, he didn't question it, he realized that maybe this was what sex was really like and this is what men and women wanted: each other's flesh. between school work and pornography joe could not find the time for girls. he hung out with a few friends from school who he befriended for the sole sake of talking about girls. while his friends ventured out and risked rejection from girls joe had no intention of going out with any girl. his girls were the girls on the screen who never judged him or rejected him. while his friends struck the jackpot of losing their virginity or at least half joe had no intention of doing so. this was joe's pride: that he was in this way physically pure. he had only tainted himself mentally, but not spiritually or physically. what happened in his mind stayed in his mind and effected no one else, but himself. he figured that if he had felt that guilt and fear the first time he had released himself then to do that inside of a girl would destroy him. to pleasure himself was an extension of his fantasy, but to carry out that fantasy into the real world scared him tremendously. so he stayed away from the opposite sex declaring to himself, "i have all the girls i could ever want." he was content or so he thought until he met anna.

to be continued...

The Elements

2009-04-17T17:12:00.000-07:00

They have taken care of Panacea since the day it was created. With the birth of a new life, human beings became part of that responsibility. However, these humans did not respect Panacea as the Elements did. They waged war on each other, burned down forests, pillaging the earth. The Elements met with one another, Earth, Water, Fire, and Air. They argued, with the power they had, the fairly new human race could be easily erased. In essence, destroying human kind meant damaging their precious Panacea, Earth splitting continents, Water drowning all living things, Fire scorching every root of every tree, and Air covering the skies with darkness.

It was argued whether eradicating humans meant punishing Panacea, or if faith in human beings would help Panacea flourish.

And like darkness, creeping inside, consuming the human heart, the righteous as well as the feeble, weren't immune.

dig narrative

2009-04-09T06:04:00.001-07:00

I remember how my father used to lecture me when I was a kid. Whether I made my sister cry or made her cry a lot, he always asked, “If someone did that to you, would you like it?” That’s always stuck with me, this idea of putting yourself in someone else’s shoes. Throughout most of my life I like to think that I always felt for the outcast, or for the loser, or for anyone going through tough times. Maybe I haven’t had the same struggles as them, but I put myself in their shoes and felt sympathy, a desire to help them. I guess that was why I decided to go on a Habitat For Humanity trip during Spring Break in 2008.
I felt alone most of the trip, but I remember meeting the future owner of the house and the look of thankfulness and joy on her face. I remember feeling good about the time I spent as well as the work I did. I decided then, that I would go the following year as well. Spring Break of 2009 rolled around and I was ready to take a break from school, to build a house, and to feel good about myself again. This time, the group was a little bit smaller; 20 kids piled into 5 cars, and we headed down to Winston-Salem, NC. Something was different this time around. I actually got to know the group I was building the house with. We spent 5-6 hours working every day, and spent the rest of the day together as well. Last year, I felt like I was working alone. A lone hammer striking in nails, but this time, I noticed that we were a team pounding our hammers together in unison for this person whom we’ve never met, but loved.
We worked together, ate together, lived together, and loved together. The community’s atmosphere surrounded us as well; Winston-Salem received us with open arms and we could not help, but to embrace back. Churches fed us chicken-pot pie until we were content, and even gave us leftovers to take back with us to make sure we didn’t go hungry that night. One of the churches even had children put on a talent show for us making us laugh, which fed our souls. Kind, old ladies mothered us by cooking us home cooked meals of lasagna and garlic bread topping it all off with baked brownies with ice cream on top. We became closer as a fellowship and as a community -- we laughed together as we played card games, formed inside jokes, and pointed fingers at each other in the bloodthirsty, accusing game of mafia. I realized then, that we weren’t just building a house, but a community made from relationships of love.

dig narrative

2009-03-24T18:24:00.000-07:00

I remember how my father used to lecture me when I was a child. Whether I made my sister cry or made her cry a lot he always asked, “If someone did that to you, would you like it?” That has always stuck with me, this idea of putting yourself in someone else’s shoes. Throughout most of my life I like to think that I always felt for the outcast, for the loser, or for anyone going through tough times. I may not have been through what they have been through, but I put myself in their shoes and could feel sympathy, a desire to help them. I guess this is why I decided to go on a Habitat For Humanity trip during the Spring Break of 2008. I remember meeting the future owner of the house, the look of thankfulness and joy on her face. I remember feeling good, feeling good about the time I spent, and the work I did. I decided then and there that I would go the following year as well. Spring Break of 2009 rolled around and I was ready to take a break from school, to build a house, to feel good about myself. The group was a little bit smaller this year, about 20 kids piled into 5 cars, and we headed down to Winston-Salem, NC. Something struck me as different this time around. I got to know the group I was building the house with, even though we spent 5-6 hours working every day we spent the rest of the day together as well. Last year I felt as though I were working alone, a lone hammer striking in nails, but this time I noticed that we were a team pounding our hammers together in unison for this person whom we’ve never met, but loved. We worked together, ate together, lived together, and loved together. The atmosphere of community surrounded us as well; the community of Winston-Salem received us with open arms and we could not help, but to embrace back. Churches fed us chicken-pot pie until we were content and making sure we didn’t go hungry after they gave us leftovers, one of the churches had children that put on a talent show for us making us laugh feeding our souls, kind, old ladies mothered us by cooking a home cooked meal of lasagna and garlic bread topping it all off with baked brownies with ice cream on top. We became closer as a fellowship, as a community; we laughed together as we played card games, as inside jokes formed, pointed fingers at each other in the bloodthirsty, accusing game of mafia. I realized that this is what we were building, a community, relationships of love. I hope that we did our part in encouraging and helping by adding another family into a home that we built for this very purpose: introducing a new relationship of love.

evolution

2009-03-21T12:21:00.001-07:00

i believe in change.

Josephine's Diary

2009-03-15T23:35:00.001-07:00

I tinkered with my Father's toys that Jewel had stored in her house before his house burned down.

It was during dinner at home Mother would always have us pray for the Fifth, so that the world would continue to be peaceful and prosperous in his absence. Without my Father, dinner would be as short and quiet as my prayers, shutting my eyes I'd let out a whisper, "Bless this food Fifth, come back soon." Opening my eyes right quick, I'd set them on the table, then to Mother since her eyes stayed closed. Mother would always pray the longest. I'd always stare at her serenity trying to imagine what she was thinking. Maybe she was picturing Father sitting at the table with us, his tongue as sharp as a knife when he'd say the food was a-getting cold. Father never understood prayer, but he said to me one night that her facial expression during it would remind him of the day I was born; a face that transcended pain. Back then I could hear them aloud. Now I had to bear with the silence.

My Father never believed in miracles. I gave an excuse to Mother one evening that if Father didn't believe in prayer why I should and she simply said, "When you're able to have society depend on you, and when you stop playing with toys." I rolled my Father's model car and rubbed my eyes. "I'm still a child Mother, I'm sorry I couldn't be more like Father."

He was a man of reason and his beliefs were simple, "Anything can be possible without the possibility of faith." He believed that if society continued to seek knowledge, they would eventually receive it. He'd say, "If half the world could sit and meditate to someone who didn't exist, they could be helping the other working half." I loved my Father but he was as stubborn as most of his colleagues were, especially when rumors broke out that the Fifth had come back to Panacea. I believed even if they were rumors, it brought hope back into society, but Father would always dismiss it completely saying, "if such a thing existed, I would be the first to see it." He always had a vision for the future, but it never included mine or anybody else's.

striving

2009-03-07T02:06:00.000-08:00

I was on the metro once, taking a trip back to the Vienna station from DC, where I'd met up with an old friend an caught some lunch. We got locked into a conversation about whether or not we were satisfied with our lives. The answer was pretty mutual; to a degree, yes -- but to another extent, no, which is what keeps us going. It was accepted as part of the human condition.

But I don't want to accept that anymore. I'm tired of the relentlessness of a life led by how dissatisfied I am with my current condition, and others as well. Why do we always have to strive for the next goal? Why do we have to push ourselves over the top just to reach another plateau that is supposed to enhance our existence? Mind you I'm speaking on a personal level, not in terms of functionality, such as profession. Why should our personality change to suit another's?

It can be a tricky path to walk, since by nature our nature changes, but there's also a conscientious level to it -- why feed into that? Why say, "hey, I'm not good enough for you the way I am, so I'm going to change that" ? There are so many powers pushing and pulling, really vexing the emergence of a personality at any age, depending on where your self-confidence and personal development are, why make it more complicated?

I don't like redundancy in the slightest, but sometimes it's necessary to learn the same life lesson in a different chapter, under a different light. When we were younger, the idea of becoming our own people was forced into our heads. As time went on, we realized it was easier to adjust ourselves to everyone else. But later on in life, that aspect just becomes another part of you that you assimilate into your life experience and use to create your more developed personality.

So in reality, I'm content with my discontent. I've made that decision, and I'm not striving for something that's not going to happen.

Reality bites.

-w

What it is to be young...

2009-02-27T09:13:00.000-08:00

People love to remind me of how young I am. I welcome it with a certain amount of warmth, albeit a smug, neutral smile I've learned in the past couple of years working in the hospitality industry. It comes from all directions -- both parents and friends alike, especially people sitting at the bar. I get asked the question of how old I am, or some reference is made to early 90's/late 80's pop culture that I don't know, and I'm hit with it.

Lately it hasn't been too big of a deal, I reply with the same smug smile and in my head, justify my feeling old. But that's how it works, isn't it? The young never feel young until years later, they look back and realize just how young they were, how much easier everything was. It's that old and very trite saying that goes something along the lines of, "a foolish man thinks himself wise, whilst the wise man knows himself to be foolish." So maybe it was a moment of wisdom when I was washing the dishes and cleaning around the apartment, realizing how carefree I carry myself and just how much further I have to go. Hell, I'm not even into my late 20's yet.

I haven't been taking the time to enjoy myself and be productive for myself; It's been weeks since I last posted on any blog, scribbled anything on a sheet of paper before I've fallen asleep, or spent an afternoon just making music without judging myself and giving up because I'm not up to par with my former self that used to practice hours on end. Instead I've been telling myself that I need to be, "responsible," and that I need to clean up around the house and do a bunch of other things that I never actually get to. In reality I end up spending my time shmoozing away online, wasting precious time. What it is to be young...

free(d) slave

2009-02-25T09:41:00.001-08:00

freedom. that's what people think of when they think of America.
"I believe in America..." that's the first line to the Godfather.
believing in America means believing in the American dream.
start from scratch and become rich.

but it's not enough. you want your kids to live the dream too.
start from riches and become richer. from generation to
generation, it becomes more about the individual.
it used to be about family.

each generation gets more selfish. looks for its place
in the world. for purpose. so they look to pleasure,
luxuries, and if anything gets in the way of it
they will fight for the freedom to have them.

the freedom to do what you want. to play video games
all day. to eat what you want and when you want and however
much you want. to have sex with whomever you want.
if it doesn't hurt anyone then it's ok.

i wonder if people see what i see.
this freedom that has enslaved us.
why do we smoke, drink, pleasure.
because we can.

i challenge you to stop. why?
because i can and i don't think you
can. try to stop. you'll find yourself
to struggle. as i do.

is this the freedom that our forefathers
dreamed about? it used to be simple.
work hard. love your wife. teach your
children. help your neighbor.

these aren't enough anymore. we are taught
to want more. there has always been a desire
in us for more. this longing to know why you
are here. who created you.

the longing for God is still here. it is filled
with cars, shoes, clothes, money, and other
things. but when you are old and gray and
your lust for women is gone

where will you turn to. retired, living off
your pension, collecting seashells on a
seashore. maybe you'll enjoy it, or you
will realize that you've done nothing with life.

find freedom. it isn't this. whatever this is.
look for freedom and escape the prison
of your mind and spirit. there's more.
there has to be.

history class

2009-02-19T23:20:00.000-08:00

"if i said 'ass' an elder would slap me.
back when gas was 50 cents."

if anything was learned in history
class. it was that times change.

i sat in the back, wondering if an
old man would slap my history teacher

because he said the word "ass"
but perhaps he would be forgiven

because he was showing how
different it is now livin'.

i still sit in the back of class
except this time

my teachers are the old man
and old women. they don't

say "ass", but rather "shit"
and "damn"

i want to go up to them
and ask if they believe

in the Lord and if slaps
they can afford

telling them that they
weren't supposed to say

things like that. but one thing
i've learned in class.

times change. but i wish
we could go back.

monsters

2009-02-08T13:23:00.000-08:00

are alive in your mind and in the
dark you give them life.
your hope is in your
blanket and your
closed eyes.

as the air thickens
underneath your blanket
and it gets harder to
breathe

what will you do?
you must
breathe.

in one
motion,

uncover.

breathe
deeply.

open your eyes
and see
nothing.

get up and wipe off your
sweat and turn on
the true light that
shames.

the light blinds and then you can see
the monster beside your bed.
now that you see him
are you still
scared?

She's Getting Married.

2009-02-05T20:42:00.000-08:00

I spent most of the day thinking about all the things I was supposed to be doing as I moped around the house; I found myself on facebook almost incessantly, recently having been hooked on a lame application/time-killer called 'Mafia Wars'.

Since I was on facebook so much, I ended up looking a couple people up to see how they were doing... One of my ex-girlfriends is engaged. I browsed through some pictures as my heart slowly dropped. Surely, there was no way that we were going to ever recover any semblance of a relationship and me trying to say hello to her wasn't going to do either of us any good, but something in me had to.

Her pictures show an older version of the young teenager I dated, but with the same smile. Her smile is really actually what made her, I think. The ability to smile so happily in every situation, to know that while there were so many other things going on, that she should always smile. An admirable quality that makes me sick when I'm feeling like a nihilist. Nonetheless, she's smiling proudly in her pictures, happy. And engaged.

I'm not so sure what it is about the fact that really bothers me, I think it's probably my ego being bruised and shattered because I know that the man she's with now fixed himself after they broke up and she dated me, and was the better man in the end. Or maybe it's the fact I'm not on that same level, that I don't have anything resembling that anymore, that tonight, I'm chalking the day as an epic waste of time.

Nonetheless, she's engaged. I sent my congratulations via facebook; sometimes being courteous is more painful to me in text because I can see the words that I typed anytime, fully knowing how I really feel. Jealous. -- Or is it stupidity? I know that we were young, but really I think my own stupidity is what really drives this jealousy, that I didn't take our relationship seriously enough and let it end as poorly as it did. Stupid, that I let us fall out of touch. Stupid, that the one time we met back up I was still stupid. But there are certain mistakes that you make and try to leave in the past, even though they will make you toss and turn at night, or fill the silence of an empty room with an uneasiness almost too heavy to bear. It's memories like those and situations like this that make realize how I should value everything that I do every day, that nothing is worthless, and everything will come back in the end.

-w

is saying sorry

2009-02-03T12:55:00.000-08:00

really enough? i didn't think you were one of those
who cared what people did with time. maybe you
care about what people do with your time and
i was too selfish to say that that time was yours.

i read poetry the entire time while you spoke
and others spoke about things that i thought
i knew enough about. you approached me
and i didn't see it coming.

all i saw were heels that looked too
old to be worn by my peers. you said
"outside is a nice place to read"
i said "i'm sorry"

you walked away as you said "it's okay,
well it's not okay, but..." and you stopped.
you left me hanging on your words.
i wonder if sorry was enough for you

the feeling of sorry or being sorry
or saying sorry. knowing that i can't
give you back your time or the respect
that i took from you.

all you had to say was "i forgive you"
or "it's okay" and you did, but you
didn't. "...well it's not, but..." doesn't
sit well with me.

and i deserve it. all i am now is sorry
in every way, shape, form and i can't
stop because i didn't hear "forgive"
like a song on repeat i keep repeating

sorry, sorry, sorry until you press the
"forgive" button and all is well with me.

ryan

personal issues.

2009-01-29T01:55:00.000-08:00

My uncle visited for a Chinese New Year's dinner at my mom's house last night; he happened to have a meeting here in Virginia that he flew to get to from California. It's always very strange to see my uncle, he's a striking image of his older brother -- my father -- and overly warm (in a comfortable way) to me, considering the fact that we only see each other once every couple of years and don't keep in touch.

Anyone who knows me, knows that for the most part, I try to kick the ass of the word, "convention". It describes ovens, and to me, supposed old traditions that I take the personal burden of doing away with by the way I lead my life. Because of this, I'm always getting advice that I have no desire to hear, or advice I didn't ask for. I saw that dinner was heading down the same route, which started of as a conversation between me and this man who had the striking image of my father.

It was a very strange thing -- I watched as he talked, and he was an odd blend of my father and my grandfather, but as I grew more familiar with his face, it slowly became very distinctly him. In parts of the conversation, he spoke with such lightheartedness it reminded me of my father, but as he got more serious -- mostly about me going back to college -- he started reminding me of my grandfather. My father and I have never been very close, and even when I visited him in the hospital for his leukemia, he treated me more like a bar buddy than a son. There were no words of confidence or of regret for the way things turned out, to him it was just a story that he was telling to an outsider. My grandfather, on the other hand, always thinks that we're a lot closer than we are, and tries to pass on overly trite advice.

As the conversation continued, however, he said this to me, "you have to choose a career that your children can be proud of," that in the end, family comes first. I've always had people living under my roof that I've tried to care and set an example for, who I've always considered as my kids, but I've never thought about what my children would think. Recently I've gotten used to sitting in the seat of the struggler, the one who always works hard, but is constantly screwed over by the way things work out -- actually more like the closet-martyr, who always says without saying, "woe is me". People have always told me to choose a good career that makes a lot of money so I would have time the time to pursue my hobbies, to which I always replied with, "how about I just pursue these passions and make money off of them?" The focus has always been on me, a person I've never really cared about too much, so sacrificing money for passion was no big deal. However, I'd never been asked to sacrifice my passion for my family. Not to say that I needed to completely stray and become an engineer or something, but more along the lines of something in my same field of interest that I could be passionate about. For instance, I've always wanted to be a writer or an English teacher. So why not go the extra step and become a professor? Teachers have always gotten screwed over by the counties that they work in with budget cuts and the like, but being a professor is stable, and carries a certain prestige, the kind that my children would be proud of me for.

I took the points in and looked upon the now-distinct face of my uncle -- he laughed and joked as he passed on more advice, but his face stayed the same. In his eyes, I saw the heart of a man who was trying his best to recover the mistakes that my father and his family had made to my immediate family. I saw a struggler. I saw a father. I saw a husband. I saw hope. I saw change. I saw convention. I saw individuality.

Later, after a long night, I looked at myself in the mirror; It was blurry, but I think I see the man my children will.

wesleigh.

Inspiration

2009-01-23T00:56:00.000-08:00

If nothing is original, what is originality?

Even before I chose to write the opening sentence, I searched it on google with quotations to see if someone had said it first. I realized that the concept of nothing being original has given me doubts in my own work. Should we give up before we start? What's the chance of being original when there's over a billion people in the world thinking billions of ideas?

This is comforting for some. If it's all been done, then it's everyones obstacle and nobody faces it alone. You make a case that you took from and give credit appropriately. If you didn't know and someone tells you where they've seen it before you don't feel like you're completely screwed. You know this already, you've known it from the start that someone out there has done it first and it wasn't you.

It can stagger creativity. I won't think outside the box if the box is in a bigger box. So I end up overthinking, overanalyzing, and editing the moment I write down a sentence. Eventually I get fed up and don't finish. Fewer and fewer I write, more ideas go unfinished, and progress becomes static.

But, has worrying about originality helped me become more original? I don't think so. Originality can have two interpretations. What came first and what came with it. People get tied up with striving to be the first person to do this and that and they miss it completely. You can be the first when you put your own personality into something. It can be different and unique. You can be influenced and those influences can become something more. You don't have to be the one that started the first fire. All you need to be is the one that keeps the fire going.

Sam

freedom

2009-01-22T21:27:00.000-08:00

At heart, everyone has freedom; it doesn't matter what kind of situation you're in, you always have the option of trying to do something. Sure, there're constantly thousands of forces pushing and pulling you to go in different directions, but ultimately, it's your choice to try to do what you want. (I'm not saying that success is necessarily part of this equation, mind you -- there's still the issue of reality to deal with.)

Aside from the obvious presence of reality, freedom becomes a question of what your values are; here's my first and only pop reference that I'm putting into this commentary: In The Devil Wears Prada, Anne Hathaway insists to Meryl Streep that she would never stab a friend in the back, after Meryl Streep's character gives part of the magazine (or something along those lines) to not-the-person-she-said-she-would in order to save her job. Meryl's reply is that Anne Hathaway had already done that by taking the place of someone too sick to make the trip. Anne's character stutters a little, trying to fight it and say that it was necessary or else, but in the end, she still quits and walks out of the limo after realizing what she'd done. /end pop reference.

Metaphorical reassertion: If you value your job, you'll let your job take your freedoms away. If you value your social life, you won't let your job take your freedoms away, etc. etc. Freedom is something that exists in everyone, to do -- or not do -- what you want, but the caveat is how you will be effected by that choice.

next topic: open

Message in a Bottle

2009-01-16T10:32:00.000-08:00

"Why don't you just put the whole world in a bottle, Superman?"

Those are the haunting words written to Superman in Mark Millar's awesome "Superman: Red Son". Those are the words written from Lex Luthor, Superman's arch nemesis, that stopped Superman from taking over the world. Those words stopped communism, it stopped the most powerful being in the world from enslaving the human race, it made Superman fall to his knees and cry. Why?

There's something so simple and yet so deep about that question. If Superman existed and forced peace on Earth. Would it be peace at all? In "Red Son" Superman stopped crime, poverty, starvation, and war. But he didn't take into account individual human rights and freedoms that make us human. For the sake of the entire human race, individuality and privacy and basic human freedoms such as voicing an opinion are taken away. Would you do that?

I'm sure many of you would say no. But I think some of you would say yes. you can put it simply and say that all these little freedoms make us human. allowing to voice our opinions, making a lot of money and spending it on whatever we want. but are all these freedoms really worth the cost? can you stand there and sip your Starbucks while people are begging in the streets? you eat at buffets while kids go hungry every night in the U.S., you buy a new car because your old one doesn't have satellite radio, you buy more clothes because you want to be fashionable. i'm not saying these things are evil, but are they necessary? you say it's not your responsibility or your fault that there are homeless people or hungry kids, but isn't it? isn't it our responsibility as a society, as humans to look out for other humans? it's not easy and convenient, but it's worth it.

would you sacrifice your freedoms to end war, famine, poverty, and crime?

next topic: is freedom doing what you want to do or is it have the choice to do or not to do?

was it a moment?

2009-01-14T23:07:00.000-08:00

was it a moment of truth? of brilliance, perhaps? the sudden idea to take these things, these afterthoughts of what's happened and what drives/separates us and put them into words. is it hope? how much? is there indeed... something? i'm not going to try to answer any questions; it'd be better to provide the context of the right questions that lead to the unique answers of each person.

there are so many things pulling on us at each moment, in every decision. is it going to be that you ditch the comfort zone and try a new view? i'm asking myself these questions now. this blog is the context of which i will be finding the right question that leads to better understanding/sharing this life and world around me. it's the question of whether or not this is that something -- that something that will force me to see if i have indeed found the answers to the questions i've been asking myself inside; is this how my life is going to play out? have i made myself into a man that i can be proud of? have i made myself into a man at all?

this week i'm posing the question of where life really starts -- biologically, we all have pretty solid answers. but in terms of life, where does it really start? right now, it feels like mine is. i live pretty independently, and make my own decisions, and have gone through a lot to get here. but have i just become another cog in society, or am i going to take advantage of my situation and make a difference?

i want to be able to take a step back and see what kind of difference i make, to see if after all this time, i've made myself into... something.

wesleigh.

welcome to the jungle

2009-01-14T22:45:00.000-08:00

hope. i believe that is the basic human emotion that everyone can share in. there are people who don't know what love is or how it feels to be loved. faith is fragile and not unshakable, doubt will creep in some way, somehow. but hope, hope is renewed every day. it may die with the setting of the sun, but it will rise again with the morning. i believe in hope and i know you all do too. hope that tomorrow won't be worse than today. hope in that that the girl you have a crush on has a crush on you. hope that this, right here and everything you see, isn't all there is to life. tomorrow may be a worse day than today, the girl you have a crush on might not like you, and this could all be it, but you won't believe that. you refuse to believe that. you have too much hope. this blog and me and my fellow bloggers are here to assure that. this blog is about hope. hope that you aren't alone, hope that this problem isn't just yours, hope that you will get through your struggles. all of us go through life feeling lonely and wondering if anyone else is thinking what you're thinking. we all are. we're all in this together. we all struggle to survive in a jungle of struggles, addictions, questions that seem to have no answers, and loneliness. welcome to the jungle. let's help each other get through by giving each words of hope. whether through poetry, narratives, questions, answers, personal stories, testimonies, and memoirs let's get all this out there. who knows what kind of effect any of these entries will have on our fellow man so please leave any feedback on our entries because we don't have it all figured out. we're just guys trying to spread the love the best way we know we can. we will be posting regularly every week and if there's anything you guys want to share on the blog than please leave comments and we'll try to post. thanks for your time. God bless.

Ryan