Season's Cheer

Today was a depressing day not because of what occurred in the classroom, but rather because of the events outside of it. Trust me, there have already been many depressing day inside the classroom.

Simply put, I've been unceremoniously dumped from the newspaper. And I've had enough of it. I'm not coming back to it. It's not worth it, spending all that time desperately trying to repair bonds that have long since been shattered. Repairing those bonds doesn't even guarantee that I would be editor anyway.

I love to write, but I hate the bullshit bureaucracy that abounds in the world. I've lived it first hand. Yes, I know I don't devote an exorbitant amount of time towards the newspaper. I don't have that kind of time. Look at the number of activities I'm engaged in: three sports, quizbowl, chorus, etc. Yes the newspaper is important, but simply because I have so many other activities, it can't be number one. And even if I didn't have the activities it wouldn't be number one. I lied earlier this year about that and it seems more absurd every time I play it over in my head.

I'm tired of spending my valuable time editing articles only to have some half-wits who I never even see take the title that is rightfully mine. I'm tired of people constantly asking me for updates and then forgetting what I've told them in five minutes. I'm tired of having to be at someone's beck and call. I'm tired of sucking up to a bullshit senior who suddenly decides to arbitrarily flex her power because she didn't get in to Yale. And I'm tired of a puppet adviser who merely acquiesces to what this person says. I don't care if this affects what college I go to (it probably won't). This is a matter of principle: I will never work under someone who is unfair and biased, someone who inflates their ego, someone who attempts to push me around. Sounds like a large majority of people in this world. If my work won't be appreciated here then I will go elsewhere to fulfill it where I am certain if my employers are more reasonable and fair, they will receive my best efforts.

Second order of business: my lost wallet. I don't even know what to say about this except it's incredibly disconcerting to continue losing things. Maybe someday I will learn how to keep hold of my things. Maybe.

Why I worry so much about these things is beyond me. The world is full of shitty people and Piingry is no exception. They can pretend to be giants and people of importance at this school, but time will reveal all. I am certain there will come a day when justice is served: when these people will meet their match or fail. And then they will see what wretches they were and currently are and desperately try to make amends for all their stupidities and harm they have caused. But it will be too late. What's done is done.

What I Want

[This was written a week ago]

As we sat and drove tonight and I looked out at all the suburbs flashing by, all the shopping centers, and gated townhouses and endless tail lights, I realized something: I could never live in a place like that. I will never live in the cultural and intellectual monotony (even oppression) that is the suburbs. The uniformity depresses me: every house exactly the same, every shopping center housing exactly the same stores under different names, the same small-sized sedans driven by anonymous faces.
I’ve said this many times, but never before, after visiting my aunt and uncle earlier today, has it been this clear: I want to be different. I saw the life they lived, how happy they were about their small townhouse, and the mall down the street and all the other townhouses surrounding them. It made me sick. Under the superficial surface, there was a frightening lack of substance: where were the books in their house? Where was the library in the exurban town? Nowhere to be found, I am afraid.
I saw two facets of silent desperation this weekend: four people slipping forever into oblivion. Two old, two young. Four lives wasted. For the old two, there is nothing to be done. They can live in their stuffy, smoke-ridden house drinking and smoking their lives away until they rot. For them, there is nothing that can be done. For the younger two, why will they not be different? They think they are unique, but in reality, are like millions upon millions of fellow Americans. I could never live this way. In what useful occupation are they serving mankind? I do not know.
At times I worry that I will be like all those that came before me, and I have every right to be worried. The majority of humanity lives like this. Look what I wrote in my English paper:
The fear of failure,
Of never writing the great American novel,
Of never exploring the world,
Of never doing or writing anything of great importance.
Do not worry: everything we do, every day we walk the earth, is the greatest success.
This is in the style of Walt Whitman, and it is complete nonsense. Of course I worry about preserving my legacy and my memory, for what other purpose is there to live? Actually, many others I suppose, but this is extremely important. I want to go away for a long time to a land I have never seen before and live there and be happy. I want to write poetry and stories and novels and see the world and play soccer under the floodlights and have friends and go out to the pub and have a laugh on Friday night and forget about tomorrow and take walks in the wilderness Saturday afternoons and make love to a girl I love under the stars and stand back and see the world for what it really is and laugh at peoples’ worries for I am far above their worries. I want to cry when I’m sad, laugh when I’m happy, hold someone tight when I’m scared, not be afraid to take a chance and fear nothing. This is what I want. Will I achieve it all? I do not know.
But tonight is only one night in (hopefully) thousands, and I cannot do everything in one night. Tonight I can only dream. Tomorrow is a new opportunity.

Sweet (Or Bleak) November

There's two sides to look at it, I'd say. On one side I'd say she likes me and she wants to go places with me. On the other side, she keeps bringing up all these other guys who she's dated which might lead me to believe it's nothing more than a fling. But if it's the former, I'm content to be one in a long line of courters. I'd do it for her intelligence and her beauty. And, more importantly, she's the only one I can actually talk to. And you know what I mean by talk. I can say whatever I want to say to her and I won't be ashamed or embarrassed because she'll always listen to what I have to say. It takes someone special, someone uniquely intelligent to be able to do that. One of the reasons my previous "relationship" (she says it never was a relationship) didn't work was because I never felt comfortable speaking straight up to her, looking at her and telling her what I think of her. That's a pretty damn cool thing that I can do.

I've been pretty busy recently, but I've had time to think believe it or not. I've thought about many things and haven't reached conclusions for all of them. For example: where do I want to go? It might seem simple in a literal sense, but thinking about it, life seems so complicated with the thousands of restrictions placed upon us by our society. That's why it's so difficult to be truly happy in society, a conclusion Thoreau reached 150 years ago. We can't all go live in the woods, and I agree with that, but what would be so bad if I were to live in woods?

That brings up another point: reaching an inconclusive decision: I never completely answered my own questions, instead leaving them to be resolved at another time. But is that a good thing? Will I forget about my resolutions and pass through life on a certain path never deviating from it, never stopping to consider my options? I doubt it. I've been thinking throughout this sweet November that, like the Spring flowers, someday I'll rise from the depths of the bleak midwinter to become something no one could have ever imagined.

Goodbye Columbus

Well it was bound to happen again, wasn't it? This time though I've learned from my mistakes and will not make the same errors I did previously. I think though, the more important aspect, is, for the first time ever, I've truly emotionally changed someone with my very own words. For a writer, there is nothing more assuring than knowing you can do that with your words. True, these are probably the most charged words I've ever written, but if I did that once, then surely I can do that again. And that is what will keeping me writing, the search to produce something like that another time, maybe even two more times.

She's nice but I'm not sure it will work. In my heart I hope it will because she's smart and nice and cute. But, as I learned before, there're too many unknowns, too many spanners to my plan. I don't, maybe I'm the eternal pessimist, but I hope that when I walk into that class she's there smiling at me, rubbing legs under the table while the teacher's words mean nothing to me because I'm so wrapped up in her. That's what I want.

I guess it's Goodbye Columbus for the other. It'd been good for a while, but there'd been too much between us. So that's that. What's done cannot be undone. I'm already tired of it all, the afternoons spent wiling away my time at soccer only to never touch the field. Why do I refuse to speak up? Intelligence, or cowardice? I like to think the former, but realistically, it may be the latter. I could scream and yell for more time, but what of it? It would lead me to nothing. Probably anything I do will result in nothing.

So this is the state of my life. One final word- there's never a better feeling in the world knowing someone likes you. I would chatacterize it as excessive exhiliaration. I've felt it twice so far in my life. Hopefully these will be the first two in a long line.

Again :)

you welcome :), i mean i definitely understand because it is such an intense topic, especially if you don't know how the other person feels about you


i feel a lot better now that i got that off my chest... thanks for understanding :)


no, i definitely give you props for telling me that, thank you :-) that made me feel special ;-)





well whatever... you don't know, it's tough to tell a girl that




i figured, i mean the poem kind of said it all




alright, basically i like you... there i said it



do i want to know what that is supposed to mean




it might be ;)




oh, trying to make me feel special? is that for a special reason





i hoped it would



that makes me feel really special





don't worry i won't get full of myself. you're the first person i've shown this poem to.



I just read your poem again and it made me cry- in a good way, thats how much i like it, i think you should get it published


WOW, Im definitely complimenting you too much, you might get full of yourself soon

COMMENT TO FOLLOW LATER

Who are you?

Consider two men: the first, a city-dweller, the second a man of the country. Which one lives a happier life? The city-dweller awakes each morning to the unnatural blaring monotone of his alarm clock, and, dreary eyed, pulls himself into a tight, uncomfortable suit, the only appropriate garb for the city office. He rushes (and what for?) to catch his bus, his train, his subway that will deliver him into his compressed hell. He scarves down a meal of chemicals designed to clog his arteries and cut his life short. What does he do when he reaches his office? He simply fritters the day away, for what useful occupation can be had at an office desk? Yes, he appears busy, he works himself into a frenzy to deliver the latest news, write the latest reports, please his superior, but what has he actually accomplished? In what way has he furthered himself, and, for that matter, the human race? The modern man takes himself too seriously: he fears the consequences of the artificial deadline. He believes that what he does is of the utmost import and that the world cannot do without it. He never stops to consider that millions of people around the world, from the office worker in Chicago to the merchant in Calcutta, live this same frivolous existence, plodding through life and never stopping to consider all the options that await him if he would merely pick his head up. Many people, faced by a firing squad, would rather struggle in their bondage, than passively let bullets strike them dead.
Now, enter the second man. He is a woodsman, living in the shade of the alpine forest. He is skilled in all the natural trades: swimming, shooting, fishing, wood carving. Each morning, he is awoken at first dawn by the slant of the sun upon his face. He spends his days not furthering unknown others who reside in the upper offices of London and Geneva, but rather in furthering himself. He cuts his own wood for his own fires, his catches his own trout for his own meals. He has ample time for himself, but this time is not wasted in inane pastimes. The man of the woods reads, writes, contemplates life. He realizes how fortunate his existence is, how lucky he is to see Nature in all its wild beauty. He alone sees the rain pelting the empty fields with gray clouds stretching behind the towering wooded peaks. He alone sees the early morning mist hanging low in the forest valleys, he alone tastes the icy waters of the lonely Northern lake. And at the end of the day, when he settles in his blanket and looks up at the indigo sky, worlds away from sickly orange haze that overhangs the metropolis, he can list the tasks he has accomplished that day. He is able to say, “I’ve walked nine miles, cut eight cords of wood, caught three trout, felt the wind ruffle my hair, the sun beat my back.” What has the urbanite done in one day? Confronted with the question, he will probably forget what he had for lunch! And, in time, when the woodsman lays down to die, he can smile to himself and know he’s seen and felt the World: the fierce heat of summer, the quiet after a midwinter snow, a blue jay chirping in the beechwood on an early April morning, the purple evening sky in October after a blustery afternoon. The urbanite will die like a firework, creating bright, loud sparks and dimming, but never completely extinguishing for years, before meekly bowing out leaving stones unturned, paths untrodden. Only on the point of death will he see the hills outside his hospice window and stop to consider what might have been.
It is left to debate whether the city-dweller or woodsman is ultimately the happier man. To each his own, the adage goes. The urbanite could live a completely happy life as a well-to-do dandy. The woodsman could remain a pauper, roving from village to village in the countryside never finding satisfaction. But more important is which man is honest with himself, which man knows the world for what it is, in all its glory and meanness, which man sees what humanity was and what it will come to be, which man can grasp his destiny in his palm. Some say Polaris is brighter in the countryside.

La Poesia

Volverán las oscuras golondrinas
en tu balcón sus nidos a colgar,
y, otra vez, con el ala a sus cristales
jugando llamarán;
pero aquéllas que el vuelo refrenaban
tu hermosura y mi dicha al contemplar,
aquéllas que aprendieron nuestros nombres...
ésas... ¡no volverán!

Volverán las tupidas madreselvas
de tu jardín las tapias a escalar,
y otra vez a la tarde, aun más hermosas,
sus flores se abrirán;
pero aquéllas, cuajadas de rocío,
cuyas gotas mirábamos temblar
y caer, como lágrimas del día...
ésas... ¡no volverán!

Volverán del amor en tus oídos
las palabras ardientes a sonar;
tu corazón, de su profundo sueño
tal vez despertará;
pero mudo y absorto y de rodillas,
como se adora a Dios ante su altar,
como yo te he querido..., desengáñate:
¡así no te querrán!

-Gustavo Adolfo Becquer

Lo Fatal

Dichoso el árbol, que es apenas sensitivo,
y más la piedra dura porque ésa ya no siente,
pues no hay dolor más grande que el dolor de ser vivo
ni mayor pesadumbre que la vida consciente.
Ser, y no saber nada, y ser sin rumbo cierto,
y el temor de haber sido y un futuro terror...
¡Y el espanto seguro de estar mañana muerto,
y sufrir por la vida y por la sombra y por

lo que no conocemos y apenas sospechamos,
y la carne que tienta con sus frescos racimos,
y la tumba que aguarda con sus fúnebres ramos
y no saber adónde vamos,
ni de dónde venimos!...

-Rubén Dario

What is a good book?

I haven't been on here for a while, what with all the time I've spent at school and at soccer. So far this year's been busy-certainly as I expected it. So, what are my big musing of the evening?

Well, I've just finished reading "Magic Seeds" by V.S. Naipaul. A thought-prokvoking book, certainly, but not my favorite book. Naipaul still retains the talent and brilliant descriptions and insights he had in the first book of his I read (and my all-time favorite) "A Bend in the River." I guess I was slightly disappointed with book. For me, too much of this book was bogged down in the Indian revolution- the endless trudging from village to village, searching for some reason, some meaning behind their fight. Maybe Naipaul was trying to portray it as a hopelessly dull, idle period, and, in a way, he was successful in this as this came across very well in the narrative. Another thing that bothered me was the surrealism of the narrative- every character a philosopher, some profound meaning waiting to be exposed in the dialogue. The New York Times reviewer describes this book as "lazy" and I agree. Naipaul makes too many assumptions of the characters he's portraying, so that they become mere allegorical and symbolic figures rather than functioning profound characters.

My favorite part, and the meat of the book, was the time Willie the protagonist spends in London. Here, the reader meets another man in desperation, his friend Roger, and this is where Naipaul can properly set down his thought- those of purpose in the world, mere existence vs. active participation. Naipaul portrays two weaklings, Willie and Roger, who let the world stomp all over them. The message seems to be that most people in the world are like this (which my experiences, I would say is true).

Naipaul's best chapter doesn't even involve the protagonist, but rather Roger telling the story of his failed relationship with a working class woman. Naipaul did this in a "A Bend in the River" with Indar and that, I thought, was the best single piece of literature I have ever read in the English language. This doesn't quite reach that plateau, but still is great. While in ABITR, the story fits seamlessly with the dialogue, here, it seems slightly tacked on. What I love though is that Naipaul exposes an individual's entire life, his thoughts, his habits, his vices, his virtues- and he just presents them to reader as if to say, "Here are the facts, what do you make of them?" The story is depressing and disheartening, portraying Roger's life as an endless series of short bursts of pleasure followed by long days of boredom (an important theme in the novel). In these chapters, Naipaul completely trivializes this guy's life, almost mocks it, as if to say, "This guy is pathetic- don't live like him."

Overall though, I enjoyed the book and would suggest giving it a read.

I leave you tonight with a stanza from the poem "Death of a Poet" by Welsh poet R.S. Thomas. Like Naipaul, I merely present. You draw your own conclusions.

His tongue wrestles to force one word
Past the thick phlegm; no speech, no phrases
For the day's news, just the one word ‘sorry';
Sorry for the lies, for the long failure
In the poet's war; that he preferred
The easier rhythms of the heart
To the mind's scansion; that now he dies
Intestate, having nothing to leave
But a few songs, cold as stones
In the thin hands that asked for bread.

On Writing

this is an essay i wrote last year. on the morning of my first varsity soccer game, i present it to you, the reader, and, although i may be heavy handed, awkward and blunt in some places, i think it describes my feelings on writing very well. i hope you enjoy!

On writing and why I write

Forty minutes ago, I had a great essay planned in my mind as to why I write and the true nature of all writing. Right now, I have completely forgotten every single word of it. I sit here, hoping some muse will inspire me to write the beautiful flowing poetry I had constructed in my mind’s eye only a while ago. But for the time being, I have nothing.
I wanted to start off this essay with a quote: some well known figure telling the world that writing is a great challenge that takes years to succeed in and countless hours of dedication, but, to be honest, I can’t find anything of the sort. Instead, glancing through writing quotations, I find these, just to name a few: “Advice to writers: Sometimes you just have to stop writing. Even before you begin”; “Typos are very important to all written form. It gives the reader something to look for so they aren't distracted by the total lack of content in your writing”; “A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.”; “Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards”. Exactly the kind of advice an up and coming writer like me would want to hear.
But really, now that I think about it, why do I write the things I do? What made me write for example, a story about Muslims waging war against Christian crusaders, or a poem about my experiences in the Deep South? The answer to this elusive question, I think, lies hidden, deep in the depths of my character and inner-self.
One of my goals in life is to leave an impression on the world. I’m still not sure yet if it will be a positive or negative impression, but I want to leave something that will make people in 200 or 300 years remember my name. Now, I know I may sound like a megalomaniac, but, to be frank, I don’t want to waste and throw away my one and only life like millions of people do each day. And are they remembered? Of course not. I am amazed at how whimsical and superfluous people think life is. They fritter their time away on useless pastimes, and only too late do they realize the fatal mistakes they’ve made. They desperately try to make some mark on the planet, usually with a colossal monument, but they fail to realize that buildings do not last forever. They too, like memories drift away, away, away, until they collapse and are completely forgotten for the rest of eternity. To put it in the words of Benjamin Franklin, “If you would not be forgotten, as soon as you are rotten, either write things worth reading or do things worth the writing.”
The amazing thing about writing is that words are timeless: they can survive the blood of war, the sands of time, and the rise and fall of countless civilizations. In the words of Herman Hesse, “Without words, without writing and without books there would be no history, there could be no concept of humanity.” Because of this, if I write, maybe, just maybe my words and ideas may be transmitted across the vacuum of time to reach new peoples thousands of years later.
But this is all too hit-or-miss. If I write something that only I know about, what are the chances that it will survive those thousands of years, those rises and falls of civilizations and the blood of countless war? If I write something that thousands of people read, that touch and change the lives of millions, well then, what are my odds now? Significantly better.
Therefore, it is imperative that I write something of substance, something that can reach out to all different types of people and draw them in. Something that will cause a fundamental change in the way people live their lives. Something awe-inspiring. Something that will unite the people of the world under one powerful banner. But most importantly, something that discusses and provides brilliant insight into human nature.
This is what I strive for when I am writing a story: to provide an underlying theme that causes the story to work on two levels. The first level is what is directly stated on the paper: a plot with characters. It is very important to catch the casual reader with this level, but it should not be the driving force of the entire story. The second level is that of hidden meaning: symbols, themes, motifs, anything that causes the reader to gain an unprecedented view into the author’s motives for writing the story. And it is this level that is so difficult for even the most skilled writers to achieve. Yes, anyone can write a story, but can they write a story that has meaning beyond the literal words?
As I mentioned before, to the average person on the street, the most important aspect of a work of literature is the plot, or what happens in the story. I have seen many a reader throw down a book in disgust simply because they perceive that there are no interesting events occurring. If only they could see beyond the words on paper and read between the lines. But still, if one wants to write a successful story, then it must be something that will attract the public as a whole, draw them in with a pincer-like hold, and let them go only with they have finished the story. The Da Vinci Code is a perfect example of such a work. When I first started writing, I would continually write about the intricacy and natural beauty of the many diverse landscapes I have seen. I would describe each location down to the smallest detail, and I would be very satisfied with my work. But very few others were. ‘Brilliant writing’ they said, ‘but there is very little plot, no action. People need action.’ In some of my recent works and some I have yet to write, I have done just that: injected action throughout the story that interests the casual reader, but at the same time include the intricate details of the landscape that advanced readers will very much enjoy.
So the muse has inspired me! I have finally set down what I have been thinking about for the past few days. I have satisfied my urge to write and can rest easy knowing that my thoughts are on paper. Although the majority of people consider it a painful burden, I enjoy writing very much, although it is often a great challenge that takes days, if not weeks, to fulfill. I will leave the reader now with a concise quote from Vita Sackville-West, as to why I write and what my inspirations are: “It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop.”

Quick Short Story Ideas

Before I forget them:

Divide into sections:
The Drunkard
The Hunter
etc.

(something like that taking place either in the Yukon, or the Midwest)- characters of Eastern European descent. Basic premise, possible; hunting a bear that's been attacking their house/village.

2. There are three thousand volumes in the Bonn library. Three thousand, three thousand, ..... was saying over and over to himself as .... stepped into the foyer.

Some kind of spy story.

Anyway, these are just some ideas to chew on while I ruminate on my other projects.

Got back from Italy, pretty much sucked playing-wise, although everything else was fun. Now into preseason, then school, where I'll be sitting on the bench every soccer match, although if you stop and think about it, it really doesn't matter. I'm ready, having been in the semi-intellectual wilderness for the past three months; bring it on.

End of Summer (Philosophical Musings)

Well, after an extremely busy summer, I'm back home, save one more small excursion to Italy for a week with soccer. Junior year, here I come. Maybe I'm slightly fearing it, but from what I heard last year, sophomore and junior year at p. are essentialy the same. I've got my courses and they're set to be difficult. You know what, though: I'm up for it. I'm game this year, whereas last year, I slacked off at the end and was disorganized. None of that this year; I can't afford it. This is my life I'm talking about here, not some game. No longer will I be lazy; I will not be satisfied with anything less than the best. I know it will be a challenge at times, I'll want to quit, but I can't quit. I won't quit, especially on the standardized tests. I'm up for it.

Anyway, enough of my manifesto for the coming year. I just wanted to put up some interested writing I did when I was at Spoleto. I think it's pretty cool and I like my ideas. Here they are:

I need a second chance, over again, what would happen this time? Not the same, certainly. Not the same, it can’t be, it won’t be. But why then do you cry? I only talk, I want it a second time, many more infinite chances, love, hopes, dreams. I would kiss you behind the supermarket, I wouldn’t scream when the bullet flew into my thigh, and I would cry, cry, cry, cry, to see you once more, touch you. I don’t know, that’s what I see in those infinite progressions of water that no man should ever touch, for all is sacred. I’m walking away now, to life, to death, to health, to breath, Away Gentlemen! Away, away, away! That’s what I would do sitting in the empty rain washed square, rain spilling down my hair, my clothes, but I don’t give a damn, never did, never will. I stand, weight’s too heavy, I fall down and lie and lie and lie in the cold bitter November rain. What else could you do?


Looking at that gray, dying New Jersey sky, across the street from where I run and pray and cry everyday I met a small man and he looked at me a while and laughed. “Oppression of the people,” he repeated over and over until my eyes drew blood and I ran home, tripping past the post-modern concrete building in my way and little boys playing football in the streets, just like in the old days and I saw all that and you know what I did? I just kept walking into my fenced, gnomed front lawn, up the steps, tossing open the screen door, sticky from humidity, sitting down at the kitchen table facing the back yard and wishing I was someone else for the day.
I saw the man yesterday, and he never smiles at me anymore, I don’t smile at him, I can’t smile at him and children run when my footsteps echo against the trashed, ruined plazas of the projects where crack sells for 1.50 a kilo and nobody gives a damn how many guns you have cause there’s always someone, most likely the Mexicans down in the building over, who’s got more.

Yes, time will pass and yes, we will age and crash towards the inevibility of death, but why can’t we just live now, forget tomorrow, just …. I don’t even know, release, I guess. Yes, the future will become the present and yes we will all eventually encounter what we fear, whatever it may be, but right now, at this very moment, I’m here, I’m sitting, I’m in Italy, I’m happy.
I saw the lightening last night, flashing far over the hills to the north. Heat lightening. I could see the bolts distinctly and I know now that that’s my future. Too far away to be heard, but seen in occasional, awe-inspiring or fear-inducing flashes. There’ll come a time when the storm is on top of you, when wind batters the windows, when the rain spills through the open door, when all you can do is crouch in a little darkened corner, just wanting to get away from it. Sometimes, you’ll be soaked, sometimes hail will pierce you roof and pelt you and give you red welt on you skin and you’ll cry but there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, you can do to avoid it…

As the days get cooler and the sun sets earlier and earlier over the gently rolling hills in the west, I occasionally stop and ruminate for a time. I glance up and see all the stars I could never see before and I wonder: Is it worth it? All men question themselves at some point in their lives and I am no exception. What will happen?
There is a chance that all the work I have ever done, all the words I have ever written, will fall on deaf ears and mean nothing. I will exist in flesh, then fragmented memory, then nothing. All men play a sort of roulette in their lives, hoping, praying the little ball will stop on the square (the future) they’ve chosen. For most, it will not and they will lost everything, for their life is their bet. But for the lucky few, the cherished ones, the ones who supercede humanity and laugh in the face of death, they have won the bet and stand up and walk away from the table. There comes a point, I am told, in everyman’s life when he must decide if he will do what he loves and remain truly human, or if he will join the ranks of countless lifeless robots plodding through existence. For some, the choice has already been made for them. For others, through luck and skill, the choice is theirs.

So, there you have it. Some things to think about while I try to contemplate the journey ahead of me.

Summer Update

First off, I'd just like to put up a picture of mine that I took last year at the Queen's House in Greenwich. I really like it, probably the best thing I've ever taken.

Anyway, down to business (or lack thereof). Got back from rowing camp in Annapolis. Wasn't too bad except we had to get up every morning at 5 am and sprint down to the boathouse. of course through a certain person, i was in the amateur boat, but it wasn't too bad, especially the part when we thrashed the other boat by seven lengths :). We had this tourney in Hackettstown, waste of my time cause I didn't go to any of the practices the past week. But we blew our chances and came in third (?) but we should have done better.

Basically I've been reading Best American Short Stories this weekend. I've really liked some of the stories, especially Awaiting Orders (about a gay soldier in the military), Secret (a young woman growing up in a depressing Midwest town) and Dominion (an old man copes with his superfluous life and his impending death). I've also just started reading the Scarlet Letter. The Introduction was crazy long (40 pages), and quite dull in some places but overall, I liked it (hopefully the actual story is the same). I've also been lazily glancing at colleges so we'll see where that goes. Lifting and running and playing soccer round out the physical activity. But overall, a decently boring week. Next week's Iowa. It's showtime then.

If I'm feeling up to it, I might post one or two or my short short stories. But hey, it's summer ;)

wow

i just read the most incredibly powerful passage of literature ever written. chapter 9 - A Bend in the River V.S. Naipaul. everything that's been in my mind, that I've always wanted to spew on paper has been set down in that chapter in the story of one man, Indar. amazing.

this chapter made me realize everything- especially all the frivolities we live in life. why the hell are we so concerned with materialism and not the human soul? why are we so damn concerned with what's on tv when we don't stop to consider our own existence? that's the remarkable thing God has given us- the ability to ponder and discern our own existence. much of life, then, it seems, is whittled away in inane, wasteful, monotonous days. what do we accomplish in those days?? nothing. the thing is, it's alright if we don't write the most powerful literary passage known to man every day, but what's more frightening is that we don't stop to consider what we've accomplished. and, i think, if we look back, we find many days have been wasted.
what's one day? you ask. what's one life? i ask. simply a collection of many days. days to weeks to months to years to decades and then you're dead. you can't stop it, it's inevitable. then why do we not take action, do something about this?
fear and ignorance. we want to live in a blinketed society, glossed over by guady materialism. we want to forget that some day we'll be dead and gone. and that's fine. i do that- to not do so would be suicidal. but, there are times in life when we need to stop and ponder the deep questions: what will i do with my life? how will i leave my mark on the world? and many people leave these questions unanswered, telling themselves they'll answer them when they're less tired or have more time- but time slips away and the moment is lost. and they never answer. and that's why the majority of the world rots away, striving for promotions that will take them closer to what??? another promotion. it's a ladder with no top.

but there's hope even in the blackest of abysses. my favorite quote: even though i walk through the shadow of the valley of death, i fear no evil, for You are my savior.
for those that recognize this, that consider these deep questions, there's always hope. and these are the great men of the past, the present and future. these are the men who are never forgotten even after centuries have elapsed. "the world is built for them" says Indar (or something to that extent).

i think Indar and I are strangely similar- we've both gone from hopeless depression to bliss many times. many people have done so. but there's no better feeling than knowing you will be remembered by posterity that your name will be engraved in the minds of millions for eons to come. there's no better feeling. and there's no worse feeling than realizing you'll be completely forgotten- a withered gravestone in the corner of a cemetery that the idle curious come to gawk at. you've wasted all your energy, all your mind power, all your amibitions, all your hopes, all your dreams for absolutely nothing (certain people i know are beginning to show these sickening tendencies). nothing. there's nothing less than nothing. but many people never even consider these feelings and pass unnoticed like a grain or sand on an infinite beach.

fine- i can live frivolities- for a while. i can worry about what soccer game's on tv and i can worry about when jack's coming over. i can because i know at the thick of it, life's more than frivolities. of course it's more- God made it more. and those of you who believe there's no God are terribly mistaken- take one walk in the woods or read chapter 9 and maybe, then maybe you'll be changed (that is, if you live more than frivolities).

v.s. naipaul starts- and i end- with the quote: "“The world is what it is; men who are nothing, who allow themselves to become nothing, have no place in it.” I will have my place in the world. One thing is certain: I will not allow myself to become
nothing.

frantic

well it's been a few busy months. very busy, actually. first time i've actually been able to sit down and write something without wondering if there's something else i should be doing.
anyway, May, May, May, a month that changed my life. how, you ask? ah, what a question! ;). just think of the lost and found during rehearsel, the music corridor after school and it should be clear. no, not like that!
dropped a few tests, minor meltdown in science, but i can cope. i've got eight days left as a sophomore. c'est la vie. time flies.
hit a brace in a game we still managed to lose. whatever. it doesn't matter to me how the team does, just if i can play and score the occasional goal. (being the leading scorer right now doesn't bode well for the team).

what a year. incredibly difficult, but what a year. so much of everything. and it isn't over quite yet ;). sat iis, finals, more tests than i've ever taken but it all seems insignificant. to what you ask? i'll leave that to your imagination.

rain

in a way, it rained today,
it poured down, through the pipes, the drains, the gray, bare trees,
in a way, it rained,
i saw her there,
she didn't see me,
i smiled,
she looked away,
pretending not to see me
or maybe she didn't see me.
the innocent whispered conversations,
the shy smiles,
the sideways glances,
all mean nothing now.
they never meant anything though,
or maybe they did.
in a way, it rained today,
as i carried my heavy bags across the well-trodden ground,
and at home, it rained,
at the field, the empty field.
and as i walk down the pot-holed road,
what can i do but smile, for it doesn't matter anymore.
because in a way, a strange, sad, yet happy, fantastic way,
it rained today.

like april rain

today was very rainy, almost depressing, because it couldn't decide how much to rain and when. there'd be some drizzling and then it'd come down, then it'd stop and just be gray. but in a way, i like that. a steady rain's too sure, too certain, but with a spritzing rain, you don't have to get soaked to enjoy it. it reminded me of england- northern england with that depressing uncertain weather.

we played our first ssc game today and drew 2-2. we played against nine men so you'd think it'd be a walkover, but no. the first half was just terrible, we couldn't string passes together and they got a goal counterattacking. second half was better- got two goals then gave one back on an uncertain decision by me (i stepped up to try to stop the ball but could only deflect it- of course it went right to the striker who buried it). but we got a point, we shouldn't be too disappointed, although our manager is ("be prepared to work harder than you've ever worked before thursday night").

driving back looked like england- lancashire. the rain was falling lightly on the car and the rolling hills were dark green and beautiful. there was this little running brook along side the road, and high up in the hills, there were these lonely mansions (the real kind). the brook passed under this railway bridge and down into the lowlands where i can sometimes see people flyfishing if i look just at the right time as we cross the bridge. then, down into far hills, they're playing cricket on the green. someone just hit a four. we turn, and there's more rolling farmland, except they're these stone farm houses, the type you'd see in france. there's just this one long road winding up to the farm and behind, the hills rise. and all the while, the rain keeps falling, like april rain should.

baseball trip

overall, it went pretty well. started out very slowly, kept forgetting to make cutoffs and small plays, was very annoying when they yelled at me. hit decently the first day. bad things: watching a certain two people take a certain position from me the first couple of days. kept trying to explain to m. that i shouldn't have gone away the first week, but she vehemetly said that it had nothing to do with that (in all reality, it had everything to do with that).

anyway, we went to the mall first night, got a crossword book (shared it with everyone on the flight back). second day was even worse except for the very end. basically was on the bench for the whole of practice watching others hit and stuff. very end was good because i nailed a first pitch fastball back up the middle from atch. didn't get picked off at first, although i made a questionable choice at second. was feeling pretty bad though. second night went to boomerz, rode go carts for hours, tons of accidents, i won a couple), of course there was nothing to eat at this place but that was besides the point.

last two days were very good. i pitched a bit and did well. my hitting was distinctly average although i did have some bright spots. t. complemented me which was very good (coming from him, it's amazing). finally last day, i was part of the varsity infield-outfield. i think i'll either make the squad and sit on the bench the entire time (backup right field) or i'll be on jv and maybe get called up to play in varsity games where it's a no contest. this week suprisingly helped me though, however, i'm still not sure how c. likes me as a player.

Random

Chess tourney this weekend...should be fun
going to see hairspray the musical and eating dinner at the red eye grill on sunday. monday and tuesday, skiing. sounds good.

been really busy the past few weeks with work and the like, not fun but i can handle it. colleges have been knocking on the door which is a good sign, mean's they're interested in me which i like.

one thing i'm thinking about know is girls. i've basically completely blown it at school, any chance of anything with a certain someone is long gone (why with matt lf? though). and now all the girls i'm looking at and talking to are being taken by other guys. why? what have i not got that they have? arrogance. ambition. that's what it is. everyone is the school strives to acheive mediocracy, so when someone raises the bar, they can't handle it. they're afriad of the unknown, why can't one of them take that leap with me? i promise it'd be a good ride.
another thing, i'm a busy guy. i'm in four places at once during cp, and i don't really feel like devoting all this wasted mushy-mushy time to a relationship. you get in, love each other, then get out as far as i'm concerned. but there's no one again, who wants that. why not??? they're all clones like that, in my opinion. i've never truly loved yet, though i've come close- camp. but, i guess it's just one of those things that comes. or not.

i don't know it's just frustrating and drives me crazy. i know she likes me, but why doesn't she push it? or should i? i've tried to, but i've been so busy. we talk on the bus and email each other but besides that, nothing. just a smile in the hall. could mean everything, could mean nothing. that's for me to decide