I want
to preface the following as to say I look back in hindsight with a
degree of fondness to the town of LeRoy MN. I certainly didn't think that way when I
was there at 14 years old. It was the complete opposite. I started the
whole puberty thing later than most people my age, so there were the
imminent mood swings, weird growth spurts, and some sort of mental
disorder(arrested development) where I would be torn by doing the things
I did when I was younger(i.e. watching cartoons in the afternoon,
playing with action figures sometimes, re-enacting the greatest super
bowl win with the then hapless Broncos), and then there's doing more
adolescent things(i.e. Rebellion against parents, being more social to
people my own age, developing skills like talking to women, or getting
involved in car maintenance). I was truly a bizarre individual,
regardless where I would have spent these formative years.(Reading Tom
Harris Silence of the Lambs and Bret Easton Ellis American Psycho do not
make you look mature at this age. You look really creepy) I tended to
remain in the former, grasping at the increasingly passe things of
childhood, as if things and people would adapt to me. Maybe it was
because I was afraid to change and grow up.
Of course, the
surroundings, however beautiful and tranquil, were completely alien to
me. The weather was consistently nice to begin with. I was hoping as I
started 9th grade, we would have a month's worth of snow days, because
of the connection with the far north and winter. We only had one day
where we missed any school, and this was because it was a complete
whiteout in weather.
The second alien like quality of my new
surroundings was the fact that this town was small and somewhat tight
knit from all appearances. Everyone knew each other and their relatives
sometimes three generations ago. I and my family were somewhat
interlopers, because we were new. We spoke with a southern twang. There
were other differences that you could spot immediately.
For example: all short words with "a" like bag was pronounced "bayg".
There
was a term used "Uff Daa" which had 30+ definitions to it. You could
never know if it was in excitement or was it an expletive. Depended on
the speaker.
The stupid pun that everyone says "yah, sure". It was there, but not everyone said it.
So,
take all these trivial things and then absorb it into your 14 year old
thought process. It was bewildering and sometimes cruel. Especially High
School.
But that will be later.
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Fall 1989- The Importance Of Speaking
There was one class I attended in the year of 1989 that was a very new
experience to me. It as an Agriculture class, since this was a rural
farming community, it was a required course at least one year and an
elective for the remainder. The hallway
walls were covered in trophy cases that stretched to the end of the
corridor. While sports seemed to be a thing for folks to be passionate
about, they really seemed to have a better percentage in winning titles
in things like poultry judging, Ag mechanics, or soils.
My teacher was named Mr Schaufler. I had never met a cooler guy than this man in my relative young age. He seemed to be a preminent authority in all things mechanic and farming. He was very laid back to an extent. He would take these new freshman, and for the first quarter or so, we would go through the individual fields that were under the FFA banner. We would spend days sampling cheeses, for example, and there were some that could taste the differences in Cheddars by the very definition they memorized. It was very new and alien to me because though I hadn't been living in a teaming metropolis before this move, we certainly didn't have a lot of farming issues discussed in public restaurants, and it was absent from any family conversation.
Mr Schaufler had a keen eye for talent in certain fields. In one week, we went through a five paragraph statement that was the FFA creed. It was an outline of the groups goals and beliefs. I had an easier time retaining memory back then, so I was able to memorize this five paragraph creed and recite it in front of everyone. It was good enough for me to get enlisted into a district contest, where our chapter would send delegates for different contests to compete with other schools. If you placed first, you were an automatic bid to the state's final on the U of M campus. If you had gotten first there, it went to the national convention in Kansas City. The creed only leveled out on the state plateau, but I wasn't having visions of grandeur. I was concentrating for weeks before our contest, not on having all the words memorized, but little things Mr Schaufler had pointed out. Certain words in sentences needed some emphasis. You needed to have a passion in what you said, sell it like you truly mean it. It was meant to be inspiring for those that listened to it. The most important bit of advice was to study this creed, because there would be questions asked after you recite it. It's one thing to recite anything verbatim, but then to answer questions on said item can be daunting, particularly if you are unsure of the answer, or the context it was given.
We ended going out to some school I forgot where, maybe in nearby Austin for the days events. I waited patiently for my turn, as others had gone in every direction for their particular contests. Mr Schaufler assured me he thought I was going to do just fine, as long as I kept my head and my nerves in check. I went into a small speaking hall, where there were 3 judges sat at a long table. I walked up to the podium... and began talking. I was powerful where I needed, and subtle where it didn't look over dramatic. After wrapping up the creed, I stood awaiting a barrage of questions, for which I received a few, but they were simpler than I thought they would be, and I answered them as thorough as possible, trying to maintain this overall look I was just some simple kid from a farm in Mower county, instead of a transplant bumpkin from Butler county in S.E. Missouri.
The wait leading to the afternoon awards ceremony was arduous, and when you do something you are proud of, but you aren't entirely sold you have the contest won, your nerves start to work themselves over for a while. By the time we had gotten to this auditorium for awards, I was a borderline wreck, despite the assurances from Mr Schaufler as well as other kids that were in my class. The speaker had gotten to the creed contest, listing from 3rd on up to 1st, my heart racing a bit faster with a name that wasn't mine as 3rd, as 2nd. Panic for one brief moment when I realize the very good possibility that I haven't placed at all. I was a failure in public speaking.
And then for 1st, my name and school announced. I was in shock to say the least. I had really no confidence in myself, in talking to others, I thought I was going to be a lost cause, or shot in the dark at the very least. I was taken back at how things went, how easy it truly was for me to get up in front of complete strangers and just talk about the future of farming. I think to this day that my adviser Mr Schaufler had seen this potential in me for this one particular contest. He saw a good placement, if not 1st. He had been the adviser for the school for years, so he knew about winning and how to achieve it, simply because those trophies and plaques lining the halls to his room were won under his advisement. I ended up getting a ribbon which I thought was the coolest thing, because outside of writing short stories to entertain myself, I really didn't know of anything I was any good at. I began to find these things though as a student under Mr Schaufler's guidance. For that, I will be eternally grateful.
My teacher was named Mr Schaufler. I had never met a cooler guy than this man in my relative young age. He seemed to be a preminent authority in all things mechanic and farming. He was very laid back to an extent. He would take these new freshman, and for the first quarter or so, we would go through the individual fields that were under the FFA banner. We would spend days sampling cheeses, for example, and there were some that could taste the differences in Cheddars by the very definition they memorized. It was very new and alien to me because though I hadn't been living in a teaming metropolis before this move, we certainly didn't have a lot of farming issues discussed in public restaurants, and it was absent from any family conversation.
Mr Schaufler had a keen eye for talent in certain fields. In one week, we went through a five paragraph statement that was the FFA creed. It was an outline of the groups goals and beliefs. I had an easier time retaining memory back then, so I was able to memorize this five paragraph creed and recite it in front of everyone. It was good enough for me to get enlisted into a district contest, where our chapter would send delegates for different contests to compete with other schools. If you placed first, you were an automatic bid to the state's final on the U of M campus. If you had gotten first there, it went to the national convention in Kansas City. The creed only leveled out on the state plateau, but I wasn't having visions of grandeur. I was concentrating for weeks before our contest, not on having all the words memorized, but little things Mr Schaufler had pointed out. Certain words in sentences needed some emphasis. You needed to have a passion in what you said, sell it like you truly mean it. It was meant to be inspiring for those that listened to it. The most important bit of advice was to study this creed, because there would be questions asked after you recite it. It's one thing to recite anything verbatim, but then to answer questions on said item can be daunting, particularly if you are unsure of the answer, or the context it was given.
We ended going out to some school I forgot where, maybe in nearby Austin for the days events. I waited patiently for my turn, as others had gone in every direction for their particular contests. Mr Schaufler assured me he thought I was going to do just fine, as long as I kept my head and my nerves in check. I went into a small speaking hall, where there were 3 judges sat at a long table. I walked up to the podium... and began talking. I was powerful where I needed, and subtle where it didn't look over dramatic. After wrapping up the creed, I stood awaiting a barrage of questions, for which I received a few, but they were simpler than I thought they would be, and I answered them as thorough as possible, trying to maintain this overall look I was just some simple kid from a farm in Mower county, instead of a transplant bumpkin from Butler county in S.E. Missouri.
The wait leading to the afternoon awards ceremony was arduous, and when you do something you are proud of, but you aren't entirely sold you have the contest won, your nerves start to work themselves over for a while. By the time we had gotten to this auditorium for awards, I was a borderline wreck, despite the assurances from Mr Schaufler as well as other kids that were in my class. The speaker had gotten to the creed contest, listing from 3rd on up to 1st, my heart racing a bit faster with a name that wasn't mine as 3rd, as 2nd. Panic for one brief moment when I realize the very good possibility that I haven't placed at all. I was a failure in public speaking.
And then for 1st, my name and school announced. I was in shock to say the least. I had really no confidence in myself, in talking to others, I thought I was going to be a lost cause, or shot in the dark at the very least. I was taken back at how things went, how easy it truly was for me to get up in front of complete strangers and just talk about the future of farming. I think to this day that my adviser Mr Schaufler had seen this potential in me for this one particular contest. He saw a good placement, if not 1st. He had been the adviser for the school for years, so he knew about winning and how to achieve it, simply because those trophies and plaques lining the halls to his room were won under his advisement. I ended up getting a ribbon which I thought was the coolest thing, because outside of writing short stories to entertain myself, I really didn't know of anything I was any good at. I began to find these things though as a student under Mr Schaufler's guidance. For that, I will be eternally grateful.
Saturday, June 8, 2013
8 Things You Don't Know About Me
I decided to post some random facts that not a whole lot of people know. I hope you enjoy.
In no particular order....
1) I enjoy almost all food for the exception of fish sticks and raisins. Especially raisins. If I come across as a pest to you in public, all you have to do in response is hold up a box of sun dried finest and I go cowering as if I were a vampire subjected to a crucifix.
2) I can't handle as much liquor as I was used to not to long ago. Seeing a friend die off young from alcohol related issues can jar you into how short this life is. The appeal definitely lost it's luster as I bore witness to an urn of his ashes February 2008. A major buzz kill.
3) For some reason, if there's an insect with wings and a stinger, I'm looking for an exit. I had a morbid fascination with swarms of bees on nature programs as a kid as well as the old creature features from the 70's, and was repelled at the same time. It's kind of like a car wreck you drive upon. It's ghastly and uncomfortable to see, but you can't stop looking. My overactive imagination also played out the craziest scenarios as a kid where a swarm of bees would attack en mass a whole populace. This causes me to twitch if I see a bee, wasp, or bumblebee. I think I will be getting stung.
4) I was once a struggling copywriter 13 years ago. I got to read movie scripts and come up with lines you could fit on one sheets, bus lines, park benches, etc. It was a fun job, but this being the early 21st century and being on dial up with money problems stunted that growth after a while. I often wish I could find myself another open door in this field, or something similar to be creative and be paid for it.
5) I hate how my hands feel after washing them. That feel just makes me go blecch! I have to moisturize them as soon as I dry them.
6) Also, seeing stray hair in the sink or in the hairbrush invokes the same reaction.
7) Another fear I had as a kid was from Superman 3. I watched it at the theatre when I was like 9, and there was this bit where Robert Vaughn's sister fell into his massive super computer and her whole face was consumed with metal strands. That thing just bothered me to no end, and I ended up on the phone with my dad while he was at work at a radio station saying it was sex and violence when it was really something else completely.
8) I cannot stand to go outdoors barefoot, especially in the grass. The feeling the grass has against the soles of my feet make me cringe. I will actually stay indoors long enough to put on shoes before leaving, even if it's to get the newspaper.
Well, I think this should suffice for now. This should read more of dumb silly fears than things you don't know about me.
In no particular order....
1) I enjoy almost all food for the exception of fish sticks and raisins. Especially raisins. If I come across as a pest to you in public, all you have to do in response is hold up a box of sun dried finest and I go cowering as if I were a vampire subjected to a crucifix.
2) I can't handle as much liquor as I was used to not to long ago. Seeing a friend die off young from alcohol related issues can jar you into how short this life is. The appeal definitely lost it's luster as I bore witness to an urn of his ashes February 2008. A major buzz kill.
3) For some reason, if there's an insect with wings and a stinger, I'm looking for an exit. I had a morbid fascination with swarms of bees on nature programs as a kid as well as the old creature features from the 70's, and was repelled at the same time. It's kind of like a car wreck you drive upon. It's ghastly and uncomfortable to see, but you can't stop looking. My overactive imagination also played out the craziest scenarios as a kid where a swarm of bees would attack en mass a whole populace. This causes me to twitch if I see a bee, wasp, or bumblebee. I think I will be getting stung.
4) I was once a struggling copywriter 13 years ago. I got to read movie scripts and come up with lines you could fit on one sheets, bus lines, park benches, etc. It was a fun job, but this being the early 21st century and being on dial up with money problems stunted that growth after a while. I often wish I could find myself another open door in this field, or something similar to be creative and be paid for it.
5) I hate how my hands feel after washing them. That feel just makes me go blecch! I have to moisturize them as soon as I dry them.
6) Also, seeing stray hair in the sink or in the hairbrush invokes the same reaction.
7) Another fear I had as a kid was from Superman 3. I watched it at the theatre when I was like 9, and there was this bit where Robert Vaughn's sister fell into his massive super computer and her whole face was consumed with metal strands. That thing just bothered me to no end, and I ended up on the phone with my dad while he was at work at a radio station saying it was sex and violence when it was really something else completely.
8) I cannot stand to go outdoors barefoot, especially in the grass. The feeling the grass has against the soles of my feet make me cringe. I will actually stay indoors long enough to put on shoes before leaving, even if it's to get the newspaper.
Well, I think this should suffice for now. This should read more of dumb silly fears than things you don't know about me.
Friday, June 7, 2013
Why Strong Independent Women Rule...
Since I was a wee lad of 14 , I've always had found strong independent women inherently attractive. I blame Sigourney Weaver.
On Christmas day of 1989, I received a VHS copy of Aliens as a present. I had seen the movie on like CBS or HBO, but it was a scene here and a scene there. My parents were pretty much the authoritarian types who really watched the intake of TV their kids had, and if there was too much profanity or a hint of sexual activity or innuendo it was blocked.
ANYWAYS, viewing habits aside, I got this copy of ALIENS on Christmas and immediately I admired Weaver's character of Ripley in that movie. She was pretty strong and yet feminine, handled herself and took charge when needed .Of course the script called for it midway, after the space marines were dominated by the slimy aliens in the bowels of the colony station that of course would doom the planet because the cardboard one note character space marines used live ammunition on an unseen enemy rupturing the cooling system of essentially a nuclear reactor. The little details such as her not being boxed in to a traditional female character archetype, such as sitting idle and concerned while the male hero goes and performs his perfunctory heroics in the last act, or be the perennial lady in peril that motivates an antihero to step his character up. The penultimate scene when Ripley rescues the young girl,Newt, from the nursery and Ripley is armed in true Reagan era style to the teeth and then some? That was the clincher. She was strong and yet maternal. The character was completely cool and just put to waste vaunted cinematic heroes.
I knew in that formative age that even though Ripley was a character, and it may had been a shrewd ploy to get women to go see essentially a B grade science fiction movie, the qualities that Weaver gave to her character would something that I would look for in female companions. A sense of independence. Knowing what they wanted and not taking any crap from anyone. That's an extremely attractive and beautiful quality a person, male or female can have.
Too often I witness people develop a sick dependency on a significant other or close friend. Almost vampiric in nature or sycophantic depending on the dependency. A person molds and shapes their worldview and perspective on the basis of what this elevated idol has or says, completely forgoing any independent thought in the process. Their self worth dissolves into something microscopic, and when the toxic relationship ends, as they are wont to do, the person feels less than the sum of their parts. They invested so much time and energy into someone with such intensity, sometimes cutting ties with close friends, family, or loved ones in the process, the person is completely lost.
I say that to keep myself aware of the easy pitfalls that come in life when someone can appear on the surface the answer to the unanswerable riddle, the end of your life sentence, and how much time you invest in them. I would rather try and retain my wits and independence to me. I seek the company of like minded individuals who don't necessarily just turn to mush at the utterance of a few well placed vapid compliments. Life is beautiful as a whole, warts and all, despite our insistence of wearing rose colored glasses and wrap ourselves in the conventional banalities expressed in hallmark cards and kitten posters.
Thanks for reading
On Christmas day of 1989, I received a VHS copy of Aliens as a present. I had seen the movie on like CBS or HBO, but it was a scene here and a scene there. My parents were pretty much the authoritarian types who really watched the intake of TV their kids had, and if there was too much profanity or a hint of sexual activity or innuendo it was blocked.
ANYWAYS, viewing habits aside, I got this copy of ALIENS on Christmas and immediately I admired Weaver's character of Ripley in that movie. She was pretty strong and yet feminine, handled herself and took charge when needed .Of course the script called for it midway, after the space marines were dominated by the slimy aliens in the bowels of the colony station that of course would doom the planet because the cardboard one note character space marines used live ammunition on an unseen enemy rupturing the cooling system of essentially a nuclear reactor. The little details such as her not being boxed in to a traditional female character archetype, such as sitting idle and concerned while the male hero goes and performs his perfunctory heroics in the last act, or be the perennial lady in peril that motivates an antihero to step his character up. The penultimate scene when Ripley rescues the young girl,Newt, from the nursery and Ripley is armed in true Reagan era style to the teeth and then some? That was the clincher. She was strong and yet maternal. The character was completely cool and just put to waste vaunted cinematic heroes.
I knew in that formative age that even though Ripley was a character, and it may had been a shrewd ploy to get women to go see essentially a B grade science fiction movie, the qualities that Weaver gave to her character would something that I would look for in female companions. A sense of independence. Knowing what they wanted and not taking any crap from anyone. That's an extremely attractive and beautiful quality a person, male or female can have.
Too often I witness people develop a sick dependency on a significant other or close friend. Almost vampiric in nature or sycophantic depending on the dependency. A person molds and shapes their worldview and perspective on the basis of what this elevated idol has or says, completely forgoing any independent thought in the process. Their self worth dissolves into something microscopic, and when the toxic relationship ends, as they are wont to do, the person feels less than the sum of their parts. They invested so much time and energy into someone with such intensity, sometimes cutting ties with close friends, family, or loved ones in the process, the person is completely lost.
I say that to keep myself aware of the easy pitfalls that come in life when someone can appear on the surface the answer to the unanswerable riddle, the end of your life sentence, and how much time you invest in them. I would rather try and retain my wits and independence to me. I seek the company of like minded individuals who don't necessarily just turn to mush at the utterance of a few well placed vapid compliments. Life is beautiful as a whole, warts and all, despite our insistence of wearing rose colored glasses and wrap ourselves in the conventional banalities expressed in hallmark cards and kitten posters.
Thanks for reading
Thursday, June 6, 2013
It's A Good Life
Have you ever just dug through a stack of stuff you used to cherish when
you were younger, to relive the nostalgia that comes from remembering
where you were at that point and time in your life? It happens to me
sometimes, and it did with a fury last night.
I was sitting in bed, trying to get to sleep, and in my restless mood I got up and went to my cd collection and walkman. I don't listen to just one cd mind you, I have to select several and then just start searching for songs that I am in the mood for at that moment. This usually results in an armload of cd's carried into the bedroom and spread across the bed strategically to maximize the results. I had opted to listen to stuff I hadn't touched in years. In a few cd's cases, it had been several years. Knocking the dust off the cover and trying to plumb the depths of my memory to see if I can recall a song, a riff, a lyric before playing the music is some weird game I devised for myself.
I put in this cd by Spacehog, called "The Hogyssey," and for some reason last night, it was a catalyst into some memories that I had circa 2001, late April or early May. I was picturing my apartment there on Kinzer, 103 B, with the picture windows and slatted blinds. The brown carpeting. I remember when I first moved in, I had an empty waterbed frame sitting on the floor and I slept on a single bed in against the window of the bedroom. I remember my sister's cat, Maxwell, as being a good lap cat one day, and an ornery cat the next.
Things back then seemed to be looking very positive. I was dating a really smart and beautiful girl, who was my first real solid love.I was gaining experience in my job at the time and it seemed that I was really thinking I could attain it all. I would end up botching it months later on all fronts, but that's not what I was thinking about when I listened to that music last night. It was quiet moments laying in the dark with my girlfriend at the time, buying cookware in Sikeston. Strange and mundane memories unlocked and floating up into my conscious.
Today, I briefly went through my stash of cards, letters, love notes, etc that I have hidden here. For the first time in I don't know when, I wasn't upset at how things fared with the other woman, insert name here _______. I wasn't miserable on how my life hasn't worked out the way I wanted it to. Instead, for the first time in I don't know when, I was re-reading the stuff and filled with happiness. I am that guy for a reason, and in the contents of the buried letters and cards, I was that guy for the significant others in that time. Rather than be depressed about how my relationships never seem to work, or how I have the worst luck, or other such nonsense, I am happy that ultimately, this is a good life. I have my health, I have my family, and I have friends that haven't bailed on me like most do. I could be in a far worse situation with my station in life. I could be poor, destitute, drifting aimless from job to job. I could be an asshole of the nth degree.I could be dead. We move through this life and acquire knowledge to apply in future scenarios. Discerning between right and wrong, adjusting and calibrating our worldview, finding someone who loves you for just being you. These seem to travel with us in this life. I know that they are still open ended questions for me personally, and maybe, for you as well. The journey itself is one that we don't often think about with a clear conscious, unshackled by all the emotions we weigh it down with over the course of life.
I am not one to think that our lives are pre-determined through genetic disposition and environment. I think that things happen both good and bad to someone for a reason. And to quote Paul Thomas Anderson from Magnolia, "We may be through with the past, but, as the book says, sometimes the past isn't through with us."
So, to all the women who have dated me and to whom I loved, to those people who I have called friend over the course of life, thanks for being there. Thanks for your contribution, both positive or negative, great or minor over the course of my lifetime. Thanks to my family for the love and support to which I can never truly match.
It truly is a good life.
I was sitting in bed, trying to get to sleep, and in my restless mood I got up and went to my cd collection and walkman. I don't listen to just one cd mind you, I have to select several and then just start searching for songs that I am in the mood for at that moment. This usually results in an armload of cd's carried into the bedroom and spread across the bed strategically to maximize the results. I had opted to listen to stuff I hadn't touched in years. In a few cd's cases, it had been several years. Knocking the dust off the cover and trying to plumb the depths of my memory to see if I can recall a song, a riff, a lyric before playing the music is some weird game I devised for myself.
I put in this cd by Spacehog, called "The Hogyssey," and for some reason last night, it was a catalyst into some memories that I had circa 2001, late April or early May. I was picturing my apartment there on Kinzer, 103 B, with the picture windows and slatted blinds. The brown carpeting. I remember when I first moved in, I had an empty waterbed frame sitting on the floor and I slept on a single bed in against the window of the bedroom. I remember my sister's cat, Maxwell, as being a good lap cat one day, and an ornery cat the next.
Things back then seemed to be looking very positive. I was dating a really smart and beautiful girl, who was my first real solid love.I was gaining experience in my job at the time and it seemed that I was really thinking I could attain it all. I would end up botching it months later on all fronts, but that's not what I was thinking about when I listened to that music last night. It was quiet moments laying in the dark with my girlfriend at the time, buying cookware in Sikeston. Strange and mundane memories unlocked and floating up into my conscious.
Today, I briefly went through my stash of cards, letters, love notes, etc that I have hidden here. For the first time in I don't know when, I wasn't upset at how things fared with the other woman, insert name here _______. I wasn't miserable on how my life hasn't worked out the way I wanted it to. Instead, for the first time in I don't know when, I was re-reading the stuff and filled with happiness. I am that guy for a reason, and in the contents of the buried letters and cards, I was that guy for the significant others in that time. Rather than be depressed about how my relationships never seem to work, or how I have the worst luck, or other such nonsense, I am happy that ultimately, this is a good life. I have my health, I have my family, and I have friends that haven't bailed on me like most do. I could be in a far worse situation with my station in life. I could be poor, destitute, drifting aimless from job to job. I could be an asshole of the nth degree.I could be dead. We move through this life and acquire knowledge to apply in future scenarios. Discerning between right and wrong, adjusting and calibrating our worldview, finding someone who loves you for just being you. These seem to travel with us in this life. I know that they are still open ended questions for me personally, and maybe, for you as well. The journey itself is one that we don't often think about with a clear conscious, unshackled by all the emotions we weigh it down with over the course of life.
I am not one to think that our lives are pre-determined through genetic disposition and environment. I think that things happen both good and bad to someone for a reason. And to quote Paul Thomas Anderson from Magnolia, "We may be through with the past, but, as the book says, sometimes the past isn't through with us."
So, to all the women who have dated me and to whom I loved, to those people who I have called friend over the course of life, thanks for being there. Thanks for your contribution, both positive or negative, great or minor over the course of my lifetime. Thanks to my family for the love and support to which I can never truly match.
It truly is a good life.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
I Built My Dreams Around You
(Something I wrote back in 2006. It was a bit for a larger story that never panned out yet. A tale of unrequited love. I was writing what I knew at the time. Hope you enjoy.)
I bet she really doesn't know the magnitude of how much I like her. It's not love, because we are still into that getting to know each other stretch in the relationship, and plus if you are too quick to come to that conclusion, the relationship becomes compromised. But, sitting here, and typing this, it's obvious that she doesn't realize just how much I'm under her thumb, or her spell. I've receded into a nervous 16 year old, where I make excuses up to see her, find reasons to talk to her, and you know, coming up with arbitrary subjects to hold her attention is more difficult than it looks. I actually pace and fret over a silent phone. I haven't done that in years. I just stare at my phone and look for it to ring, and then, I jump when it finally does. If it's another number, I almost just let it go to voice mail.
I often think of her in the morning when I get up, and when I go to sleep is really bad, because I want to execute this properly. I don't want things to move quick and get potentially disastrous on a personal level. Keeping that in mind, I just try and keep a distance from her as to not give her the impression of smothering. I'm trying to not make the same mistakes again, where it's alarming enough for the girl to cut and run when it feels at it's most opportune, and nothing says that like some emotional clingy guy, calling and pestering at all hours of the day.
I just wish any acknowledgement of me would be more genuine, or at least feel that way. If this girl feels the way that I do to some degree, than show it from time to time. I can't get a good indication if it feels as if I'm prying information out, and responses are almost an afterthought. Like she's simulating answers I want to hear, and listening to my responses with entertainment in mind. I have to keep in mind that this person has a full slate of activities on any given week, and I really do feel fortunate when we can talk, but just some quiet time is all I want. A brief moment shared by two people and no other else.
I'm too confused anymore. I want to just let this play out, due in part to how much I like her and have respect for her positions, but it's eating me up sitting and just biding my time. Maybe it's nature, or maybe it's the fear of being alone for the rest of my life. I don't want to put pressure and stress on her, but I don't want to be a foregone thought either.
Treasure me like I treasure you.
I bet she really doesn't know the magnitude of how much I like her. It's not love, because we are still into that getting to know each other stretch in the relationship, and plus if you are too quick to come to that conclusion, the relationship becomes compromised. But, sitting here, and typing this, it's obvious that she doesn't realize just how much I'm under her thumb, or her spell. I've receded into a nervous 16 year old, where I make excuses up to see her, find reasons to talk to her, and you know, coming up with arbitrary subjects to hold her attention is more difficult than it looks. I actually pace and fret over a silent phone. I haven't done that in years. I just stare at my phone and look for it to ring, and then, I jump when it finally does. If it's another number, I almost just let it go to voice mail.
I often think of her in the morning when I get up, and when I go to sleep is really bad, because I want to execute this properly. I don't want things to move quick and get potentially disastrous on a personal level. Keeping that in mind, I just try and keep a distance from her as to not give her the impression of smothering. I'm trying to not make the same mistakes again, where it's alarming enough for the girl to cut and run when it feels at it's most opportune, and nothing says that like some emotional clingy guy, calling and pestering at all hours of the day.
I just wish any acknowledgement of me would be more genuine, or at least feel that way. If this girl feels the way that I do to some degree, than show it from time to time. I can't get a good indication if it feels as if I'm prying information out, and responses are almost an afterthought. Like she's simulating answers I want to hear, and listening to my responses with entertainment in mind. I have to keep in mind that this person has a full slate of activities on any given week, and I really do feel fortunate when we can talk, but just some quiet time is all I want. A brief moment shared by two people and no other else.
I'm too confused anymore. I want to just let this play out, due in part to how much I like her and have respect for her positions, but it's eating me up sitting and just biding my time. Maybe it's nature, or maybe it's the fear of being alone for the rest of my life. I don't want to put pressure and stress on her, but I don't want to be a foregone thought either.
Treasure me like I treasure you.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Flashback 1990- Grade A Ham
Once a year in the high school, there is a homecoming which all the
classes participate. Not merely just the window decoration that would
illustrate business windows down main street, but there were also float
constructions and there were skits each class had to perform for an
assembly for the entire town. One Tuesday night, three days before the
homecoming game, each class from the freshman up to the senior class
would perform a skit very pro cardinal against their opponent. All fun
and no fuss. There wasn't a lot of thought put into much, except maybe
the floats. I was assigned to go on this skit team with two other
classmates who weren't exactly resonating team spirit much like myself.
We sat one 45 minute period just halfheartedly throwing out ideas, but
spent more time looking at the girls in the class and making comments as
to who was hot.
A week passes and change locations to a church foyer my father pastored at the time. I and this other guy named Jesse were there working on an idea of time travel with the crude transportation device of a cardboard box or something else that had been liberally stolen from Calvin and Hobbes. We were deciding who was playing what, and there was this uneasy assurance we had things together to perform in front of a large crowd later that night. I agreed to meet Jesse there before the program began to make sure where to put the box, and to brush up on any lines that seemed a little iffy.
I arrived to the school gym early, partly for the skit prep, but also because I was playing trumpet in the marching band and we had to get there to set up for the small concert we played during the program. I waited around, fidgeted as the clock started to compress the start time of the assembly closer and closer, and I realized at the point 5 minutes or so before the programs start, my associate was going to be a no show. I had no box, no partner, and no skit. I sat up in the corner of the bleachers with another trumpet player, a fellow classmate. She naturally asks where Jesse is, to which I reply I didn't know. I was talking that I should forfeit the skit, and she replied that would be awful, as well as costly to the class, for non-participation was a fine to the class. It was shaping to be a lose/lose situation.
At the start of the year, I had been goofing around with this percussionist Jay doing voice impersonations. I had managed to make a credible impersonation of comedian Dana Carvey impersonating then President George Bush. Weird I know. I had quickly thought I should use that as the new skit for the class, because I wasn't about ready to be looked at for the impending fine by everyone else in class. I really tried to use this moment as that point where I would be like cool for the class, most popular and all that other stuff we saddle ourselves with in adolescence.
I sat over in the corner with the band. We performed a couple of numbers. The crowd was pretty sizeable, filling most of the floor and swelled into the bleachers opposite of the band placement. The skits began shortly after. I was second in line behind the freshman class. I stood off the side of the stage, behind the curtain pulled back, racking my brain for any one liners or good jokes to say in this impersonation. I wanted to make sure I mentioned the ball team as well as the upcoming game. The name of the sophomore class came out muffled over the p.a. and the curtains drew back, leaving me there in front of the spotlight, hundreds shifting and coughing in their seats.
To this day, I have no clue as to what I said. I know it was funny. Real funny in some parts. I was loose after the first minute, crowd getting loud when I mentioned about the game Friday. I was really starting to ham things up onstage, to point I was so comfortable, the stage manager had been making a cut sign for I don't know how long. I wound up my speech and the curtain drew shut on stage. There was an applause I had never heard of personally. I had seen ovations like this on TV or in the movies, but this was different. The crowd was loud and appreciative to the bit, and when I came out to cross over back into the band, the crowd was on their feet, and the spotlight was centered on me as I walked ever proud back to the top bleachers. Afterwards, everyone was really psyched thinking I had planned this all along, and then were surprised that all of the goofy impersonation had been improved.
Funny ending. There were awards given out the day of the game at a school assembly. The science teacher Mr Henson was naming off classes in 3rd to 1st order, and then when he had gotten to the skit competition, he announced as first the sophomore class, "To his credit", or words to the effect singling me out personally. That was indeed a rich moment, sitting there as the savior of a contest for a class who really weren't all that accepting of me at first. In hindsight, things began to work out better amongst myself and my classmates after the whole skit episode.
A week passes and change locations to a church foyer my father pastored at the time. I and this other guy named Jesse were there working on an idea of time travel with the crude transportation device of a cardboard box or something else that had been liberally stolen from Calvin and Hobbes. We were deciding who was playing what, and there was this uneasy assurance we had things together to perform in front of a large crowd later that night. I agreed to meet Jesse there before the program began to make sure where to put the box, and to brush up on any lines that seemed a little iffy.
I arrived to the school gym early, partly for the skit prep, but also because I was playing trumpet in the marching band and we had to get there to set up for the small concert we played during the program. I waited around, fidgeted as the clock started to compress the start time of the assembly closer and closer, and I realized at the point 5 minutes or so before the programs start, my associate was going to be a no show. I had no box, no partner, and no skit. I sat up in the corner of the bleachers with another trumpet player, a fellow classmate. She naturally asks where Jesse is, to which I reply I didn't know. I was talking that I should forfeit the skit, and she replied that would be awful, as well as costly to the class, for non-participation was a fine to the class. It was shaping to be a lose/lose situation.
At the start of the year, I had been goofing around with this percussionist Jay doing voice impersonations. I had managed to make a credible impersonation of comedian Dana Carvey impersonating then President George Bush. Weird I know. I had quickly thought I should use that as the new skit for the class, because I wasn't about ready to be looked at for the impending fine by everyone else in class. I really tried to use this moment as that point where I would be like cool for the class, most popular and all that other stuff we saddle ourselves with in adolescence.
I sat over in the corner with the band. We performed a couple of numbers. The crowd was pretty sizeable, filling most of the floor and swelled into the bleachers opposite of the band placement. The skits began shortly after. I was second in line behind the freshman class. I stood off the side of the stage, behind the curtain pulled back, racking my brain for any one liners or good jokes to say in this impersonation. I wanted to make sure I mentioned the ball team as well as the upcoming game. The name of the sophomore class came out muffled over the p.a. and the curtains drew back, leaving me there in front of the spotlight, hundreds shifting and coughing in their seats.
To this day, I have no clue as to what I said. I know it was funny. Real funny in some parts. I was loose after the first minute, crowd getting loud when I mentioned about the game Friday. I was really starting to ham things up onstage, to point I was so comfortable, the stage manager had been making a cut sign for I don't know how long. I wound up my speech and the curtain drew shut on stage. There was an applause I had never heard of personally. I had seen ovations like this on TV or in the movies, but this was different. The crowd was loud and appreciative to the bit, and when I came out to cross over back into the band, the crowd was on their feet, and the spotlight was centered on me as I walked ever proud back to the top bleachers. Afterwards, everyone was really psyched thinking I had planned this all along, and then were surprised that all of the goofy impersonation had been improved.
Funny ending. There were awards given out the day of the game at a school assembly. The science teacher Mr Henson was naming off classes in 3rd to 1st order, and then when he had gotten to the skit competition, he announced as first the sophomore class, "To his credit", or words to the effect singling me out personally. That was indeed a rich moment, sitting there as the savior of a contest for a class who really weren't all that accepting of me at first. In hindsight, things began to work out better amongst myself and my classmates after the whole skit episode.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Why I Write
As far back as I could remember, I always wanted to write.
I would be composing stories as early as 4th grade, a few pages of truncated plots from movies I had watched on video. I vaguely remember doing tweaks to stuff like The Neverending Story or Cloak & Dagger. With these stories, I would have accompanying illustrations. To me, the thought of being paid to write out my thoughts and create was the best job ever. I remember reading the old adage of practice, practice, practice as well as write what you know. I would try and form a habit of getting stuff down on paper, a notepad on hand to write thoughts or ideas. I even went so far as to have a micro cassette recorder as a fail safe measure should I had forgotten the pad and paper.
As I got older though, the changes I went through at adolescence were crippling at times. A new state and completely different environment just offset these quiet rage filled diatribes to paper. Watching grotesque and disconnected action extravaganzas from the 80's weren't beneficial, as I would supplant the image of the bad guy being filled with hot death, courtesy of a semi automatic weapon with a magazine of endless ammunition, with the image of some class mate I didn't like. It's not that I outwardly hated on someone in those days, I would internalize the things I found grating and mean, and turn it into art. Violent nonsensical art, but it was the only coping mechanism I knew that worked. I'm too much of a pacifist to take aggression out with clenched fists and a furrowed brow garbling something incomprehensible. I'd sooner put to death someone with a series of sentences than a flurry of fists.*
*and for someone who is using some form of gun play in much of his fiction, I have an unease with firearms. No, seriously. This, despite the fact I live in an area that cherishes firearms as much if not more so than their own child, is somewhat humorous.
When I got finished with my senior year of high school. I had amassed nearly 300 pages of a story that had no end. This was due to the fact I never formally outlined any story ahead of time or thought out characters and their motivations properly. As such, there would be wild swings in behavior on the page amongst characters that seemed rather schizophrenic if not multiple personality. During my first year in college, I would work on a manuscript that accumulated 100+ pages of flights of fancy and macabre imagery. It didn't quite work out, though, there were parts that sang like a brassy vocalist in a jazz orchestra.
It was through an extended correspondence with a friend I made in Hollywood, where I found my niche. Shorter in my case was better, according to Dawn, who even sent me links to submissions online. Through my syntax and word play, I was able to do some free lance copy writing. That was some of the best times I had.*
*It may explain my joy of watching Mad Men. Working for a client and being paid to be creative. Sans the 60's wardrobe
Now, my goal still remains the same. I would love to be able to be published or feel as if I'm a significant contributor to something. I want to be at least one person's immediate destination when I put up something new. Feedback and advice is needed and desired. Mostly though, I do this as a release of emotions. I tend to internalize things too much. I think back to a lament by Tony Soprano wondering why more people didn't pattern themselves after Gary Cooper. The strong stoic type. I work every day to not let any negative energy disrupt my balance. I wear my emotions sometimes on my sleeve, and it gets messy sometimes. Writing to me is a conduit for the things that build inside that needs an immediate release. It's one of the greatest gifts to have when you exercise it properly. It's a blessing when someone feels it, relates to what your saying, and appreciates your contribution.
This is why I write...
I would be composing stories as early as 4th grade, a few pages of truncated plots from movies I had watched on video. I vaguely remember doing tweaks to stuff like The Neverending Story or Cloak & Dagger. With these stories, I would have accompanying illustrations. To me, the thought of being paid to write out my thoughts and create was the best job ever. I remember reading the old adage of practice, practice, practice as well as write what you know. I would try and form a habit of getting stuff down on paper, a notepad on hand to write thoughts or ideas. I even went so far as to have a micro cassette recorder as a fail safe measure should I had forgotten the pad and paper.
As I got older though, the changes I went through at adolescence were crippling at times. A new state and completely different environment just offset these quiet rage filled diatribes to paper. Watching grotesque and disconnected action extravaganzas from the 80's weren't beneficial, as I would supplant the image of the bad guy being filled with hot death, courtesy of a semi automatic weapon with a magazine of endless ammunition, with the image of some class mate I didn't like. It's not that I outwardly hated on someone in those days, I would internalize the things I found grating and mean, and turn it into art. Violent nonsensical art, but it was the only coping mechanism I knew that worked. I'm too much of a pacifist to take aggression out with clenched fists and a furrowed brow garbling something incomprehensible. I'd sooner put to death someone with a series of sentences than a flurry of fists.*
*and for someone who is using some form of gun play in much of his fiction, I have an unease with firearms. No, seriously. This, despite the fact I live in an area that cherishes firearms as much if not more so than their own child, is somewhat humorous.
When I got finished with my senior year of high school. I had amassed nearly 300 pages of a story that had no end. This was due to the fact I never formally outlined any story ahead of time or thought out characters and their motivations properly. As such, there would be wild swings in behavior on the page amongst characters that seemed rather schizophrenic if not multiple personality. During my first year in college, I would work on a manuscript that accumulated 100+ pages of flights of fancy and macabre imagery. It didn't quite work out, though, there were parts that sang like a brassy vocalist in a jazz orchestra.
It was through an extended correspondence with a friend I made in Hollywood, where I found my niche. Shorter in my case was better, according to Dawn, who even sent me links to submissions online. Through my syntax and word play, I was able to do some free lance copy writing. That was some of the best times I had.*
*It may explain my joy of watching Mad Men. Working for a client and being paid to be creative. Sans the 60's wardrobe
Now, my goal still remains the same. I would love to be able to be published or feel as if I'm a significant contributor to something. I want to be at least one person's immediate destination when I put up something new. Feedback and advice is needed and desired. Mostly though, I do this as a release of emotions. I tend to internalize things too much. I think back to a lament by Tony Soprano wondering why more people didn't pattern themselves after Gary Cooper. The strong stoic type. I work every day to not let any negative energy disrupt my balance. I wear my emotions sometimes on my sleeve, and it gets messy sometimes. Writing to me is a conduit for the things that build inside that needs an immediate release. It's one of the greatest gifts to have when you exercise it properly. It's a blessing when someone feels it, relates to what your saying, and appreciates your contribution.
This is why I write...
Muses & Inspriation
The muse which spurs me to write takes many different and varied forms. Sometimes, it's another person that I'm sharing life and spanning time with. Other times, it's a situation that has tapped into the wellspring of creativity. The last significant event that spurred this much writing was when a relationship with a woman ended and it was emotionally devastating. I wrote for a full month. It was pretty creative, though, not necessarily good.
Currently though, my muse is in somewhat a better place these days. It's in the form of a very good friend, confidant, and other assorted adjectives that I feel a deep fondness for, and, stepping away from creativity for just a second, someone I feel a voluminous connection with.
Have you ever gotten to know someone and their likes and dislikes somewhat match yours? Their passions are in close proximity's with yours? Those are the best connections in life, because it seems the legwork and time and effort you spend to get this point alone is hulk leaped over in one moment. Not only that, but, in their company, you strive to be better. They bring out the best, or the closest equivalent of the best in you. You realize their significance in your life grow greater as time passes, and you know that however things pan out, regardless what the future holds in it's hands, you will be forever changed and marked by the time and association you spent with that person.
My muse has me inspired to make written art daily. Maybe it's due to the fact she's herself an artist, or maybe it's due to the fact that she actually took time to read, to listen and to encourage. I'm sure she would most likely say the latter being that she never seems to be at want for a spotlight of attention. I'm thankful that I've gotten to spend time and words with her. I may not likely have ever gathered the courage to write stuff and publicize it if there wasn't encouragement from her. As a friend on twitter said to me about posting blogs, sometimes it's the equivalent of yelling into the void.
So for all this, I got to thank Lisa. You are a vital component in my creative process and awesome person in you're own right. It's been a privilege the past few months. Here's hoping that someday we can collaborate together in the arts.
Currently though, my muse is in somewhat a better place these days. It's in the form of a very good friend, confidant, and other assorted adjectives that I feel a deep fondness for, and, stepping away from creativity for just a second, someone I feel a voluminous connection with.
Have you ever gotten to know someone and their likes and dislikes somewhat match yours? Their passions are in close proximity's with yours? Those are the best connections in life, because it seems the legwork and time and effort you spend to get this point alone is hulk leaped over in one moment. Not only that, but, in their company, you strive to be better. They bring out the best, or the closest equivalent of the best in you. You realize their significance in your life grow greater as time passes, and you know that however things pan out, regardless what the future holds in it's hands, you will be forever changed and marked by the time and association you spent with that person.
My muse has me inspired to make written art daily. Maybe it's due to the fact she's herself an artist, or maybe it's due to the fact that she actually took time to read, to listen and to encourage. I'm sure she would most likely say the latter being that she never seems to be at want for a spotlight of attention. I'm thankful that I've gotten to spend time and words with her. I may not likely have ever gathered the courage to write stuff and publicize it if there wasn't encouragement from her. As a friend on twitter said to me about posting blogs, sometimes it's the equivalent of yelling into the void.
So for all this, I got to thank Lisa. You are a vital component in my creative process and awesome person in you're own right. It's been a privilege the past few months. Here's hoping that someday we can collaborate together in the arts.
Saturday, June 1, 2013
Requiem For a Home
On Monday June 3rd, the house I grew up in with my family is being put on the block for auction. It's currently in a state of disarray as the family it was leased to have gone and left in the night. Literally not merely figuratively. The power has been turned off there for who knows how long, as the air inside is rancid with the acidic taste of rotten food that was housed in the refrigerator. There are piles of trash and litter throughout the rooms, signs of a life that abruptly fled, as if the authorities were coming in, and the inhabitants of the place fled. The humidity from the barely open windows is causing the woodwork to feel damp and enhances a musty smell to the place.
I'm in the closet that's under the stairwell, using my phone as an impromptu flashlight. Concentrating the LED light to find where my things would be, which looks buried in a compact pile of other things the tenants brought in. I can't find a single thing in here, maybe because the light is sub par, maybe because there's too much of their stuff in here, or maybe it's because I already know that in all likelihood, what I left at the house has been either pawned off for a pittance of cash, or set on the curb with the trash to be picked up.
As I'm going up the stairs to the second floor of the house in the futile hope that my things may be in a closet upstairs, I'm stricken with sadness in how this house has devolved in the past few years. The house was always known either as the Dawe House, or it was known as, "that big blue house with the pine trees in the front". As a small child I remember just how vast and giant it looked. It still has that same look to it, despite the fact I'm 38. For over three decades, this house was made into a home. The lawn was as large as the house, and was cut my brother and I via a push mower when we were 10 or 11. The living room had actually been a small class room for a while, as my mom had created Kinder College for really young kids. In the old days, there was no central heat or air. We wouldn't get that until 1987. Lots of box fans and oscillating fans in the summer. There was a large floor register in the middle of one room that would heat things quite well in the winter, except for the kitchen, it was always chilly in there.
This house went through some changes, and yet it was the family home. Where children grew up, graduated, left and sometimes came back. Where things with my parents took a turn for the worst, and their marriage dissolved. It was a lot of things I'm sure to my siblings as well as myself in the end.
And now, now it's gone.
An end to a proverbial era so to speak. I'm going to miss that place.
I'm in the closet that's under the stairwell, using my phone as an impromptu flashlight. Concentrating the LED light to find where my things would be, which looks buried in a compact pile of other things the tenants brought in. I can't find a single thing in here, maybe because the light is sub par, maybe because there's too much of their stuff in here, or maybe it's because I already know that in all likelihood, what I left at the house has been either pawned off for a pittance of cash, or set on the curb with the trash to be picked up.
As I'm going up the stairs to the second floor of the house in the futile hope that my things may be in a closet upstairs, I'm stricken with sadness in how this house has devolved in the past few years. The house was always known either as the Dawe House, or it was known as, "that big blue house with the pine trees in the front". As a small child I remember just how vast and giant it looked. It still has that same look to it, despite the fact I'm 38. For over three decades, this house was made into a home. The lawn was as large as the house, and was cut my brother and I via a push mower when we were 10 or 11. The living room had actually been a small class room for a while, as my mom had created Kinder College for really young kids. In the old days, there was no central heat or air. We wouldn't get that until 1987. Lots of box fans and oscillating fans in the summer. There was a large floor register in the middle of one room that would heat things quite well in the winter, except for the kitchen, it was always chilly in there.
This house went through some changes, and yet it was the family home. Where children grew up, graduated, left and sometimes came back. Where things with my parents took a turn for the worst, and their marriage dissolved. It was a lot of things I'm sure to my siblings as well as myself in the end.
And now, now it's gone.
An end to a proverbial era so to speak. I'm going to miss that place.
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