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.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
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.”
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.”
Friday, August 24, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, August 13, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, July 02, 2007
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 ;)
Friday, June 15, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, May 28, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, April 16, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, February 16, 2007
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
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
Thursday, December 21, 2006
the typical american
12:30. by myself at the field kicking the ball. over by the school, i can hear the children playing their mundane games of tag and basketball without a second thought. they're laughing, jumping, smiling, cheering. i watch them. i'm not happy. you'd think i would be. i'm on break, what could be better than that? many things, really.
my head is feeling tight now. i can't think of any thing to write about. i'm struggling, thousands of thoughts rushing through my head a second. Spain, no, costa rica, maybe, england, maybe, america, maybe. i don't know, you just feel sick when you can't think of anything to write. you're thinking so hard, concentrating on that one thought, the subject of writing, that you lose all your energy. then i realize, just release. remember electric cool aid acid test? just release. let go, live in the NOW. it'll come if you relax. it happens to everyone, even to the best of writers. so of course it will happen to you. so, what do you do? just observe. look at the world around you.
but there's nothing interesting. here's where i am: the middle of a turf football field with a parking lot and a school on one side, and some one-story houses and the forest of the other side. i went into that forest once. it was depressing. there was lots of trash in white plastic bags, beer bottles, baby diapers and junk. how did this stuff get here? must be a big party scene. i'm walking through the thorns and plants and i come to a small stream. up stream, couple of guys are fishing in a small pool near the place where it runs out of the sewer drain. good luck catching anything. down stream, it goes past the historical society down under river road past all the abandoned car dealerships and the office parks and into the Passaic River. Yes sir, once the dirtiest river in all of the United States. probably still is. i've been in a couple of times, and i'm fine, so i don't know. you know, i've always wondered where the river goes. i always see it in motion, under the bridge, by the path, flowing, but where's it coming from? that's for God to know and you to find out.
so that's where i am. nothing special. there's only one other guy on the track anyway. before, there were a couple of maintainence guys kicking field goals. they were terrible, but it was alright. so, i take a look at this guy, and a hate him already. he probably works at one of those sickening office parks. you know the ones, with miles of concrete parking lots, post-modern 1980's architecture, security cameras all over the place. i always drive by these places and i ask myself, "who works here?" now i know. i'd never work at a place like that. i think any sensible person would know why.
just looking at him, i know every minute detail of his life. his new E-class BMW is still on lease, he bought it last year for 40,000 dollars at one of the three dealers in town. he's a local boy, yes sir he is. Summet high school, class of '62, by God. one of the best tailbacks in the state, star pitcher for the team. never won a championship, though. always seemed to come up short every time. sometimes drops in to see the old coach and talk about the program. "so, how's the team this year?" "oh, you know, same old, same old". he's the only one to show interest. "i can help if you want, still got the old arm going," he says, pretending to throw a baseball. "that's what we've got coaches for, fella." we don't want you here. comes down and watches every game, yes sir, ain't missed a game in almost ten years. always there, leaning against the chain-link fence in his tight fit Levi jeans and t-shirt tucked in. he always wears tennis shoes, just in case they might need him. but they never do. he chats with his old classmates at the game. Chuck Wilson, son of Don, the big real-estate magnet in town: "this kid isn't half as good as you. i remember you could throw a cool 90. you had a chance to make it big." he looks at the kid and nods his head. he knows he blew it, but he doesn't care. he's got a grand three story house, cost 2.1 million, two kids, both at Summet High, a beautiful wife, his highschool sweetheart, in fact, and three cars. he's living the life. he plays golf every sunday at Canue Brook, same tee-time, same old high school friends, same score, can't seem to get any lower. in the summer, he's at the country club every weekend, playing in some tournament. he never wins. but he smiles and wears expensive sunglasses nonetheless. only goes to church at Christmas and Easter, dresses up in his best, looking dapper, always drops a cool 20 in the offering, staring up at the deacon looking for a reaction. but she's featureless, and passes on. she doesn't care. she sees the same thirty of them every time and see hates their guts.
never reads, and if he does, only the Star Ledger or the Courier News, best goddam paper in the state of New Jersey, better than the other junk, the New York Times. always goes to the sports section first, looking at how Rutgers did in basketball or football or bowling. he'll read the results to his children and wife. they stare blankly at him, no one cares. he's a Giants and a Mets fan. hopes they'll do better every year, they never do. his wife's car's a Honda mini-van. every Thursday she takes Kevin with his spiked up hair and skinny features down to the Y to AAU basketball. he's a point guard. his dad'll stand on the sidelines in his business suit-he gets home at 4 every day- and shout encouragment to his son. he's the only dad to do this. after the game- the same advice every time- the same "good job, son," and then back home to watch the 30 minute DirectTV highlights of all the weekend football games, even though he's seen them twice already. he fancy's himself an analyst. when his wife calls him to dinner, he says, "one sec, kate, just let me see this play one more time." he checks and rechecks the ESPN.com football section nightly, looking for advice for his fantasy football team. the tips haven't helped him so far. he followed them all, and he's 6th in his league, losing to a 15-year-old punk who plays soccer and couldn't give a shit about football.
in two paragraphs, that's his life. he doesn't do anything interesting at work, just sits and surfs the Internet all day. in fact, no one's quite sure what he does. not even himself. his dad grew up in summit, lived the same life, died in summit, lived his WHOLE FUCKING LIFE in Summit. he's only been out of the country once, to the Atlantas beach resort in the Bahamas. he wants to go back and has been saving up for years. he thinks he knows Spanish and wants to go to Mexico some time. never wants to go to europe, only stupid French and Germans live there, and the British with their strange accents. yes sir, only place he ever goes on vacation is good old Florida, yep, Miami Beach, hulking high rises, thousands of people on the beach, water smelly from kids shitting in it, but he doesn't mind. he got a good cheap travel package from the Walter Long Travel Agency. he doesn't mind at all, even if he has to put their luggage tags on his pieces of black, shapless luggage.
he's the typical america. he's a mindless robot, a child. he holds no opinions of his own, others influence him. he thinks he once had dreams and ambition and aspirations, but he doesn't even know the definition of "aspiration". he thinks it's the best life he can have, wasting his body, his ONE life on this earth, rotting away in some coporate office park at the water cooler talking about the Monday Night Game, when he can be thinking, living, breathing. he could be writing, writing a novel, a poem, traveling, seeing the world, being free, but he's a slave of habit. he doesn't think at all. and when the slightest strange thought comes into his mind, or when someone asks him about religion or life as a whole, he nerviously laughs and switches the subject to the AL wild card race. yes sir, 290 million people live like this in America. this think about that, 290 MILLION dead, unthinking, uncaring, unbelieving minds. what a waste. what a terrible, terrible thing to waste. what'll happen when he's dead? only through the money and material possessions he owned will he be remembered. yes they may last 10 or even 20 years, but once everything's gone, it's gone and there's no way anyone could ever bring him back. yes, his name'll be on a gravestone in the corner of the graveyard by the railroad tracks, but weather and the passage of time will conquer all. his gravestone will become weathered and beaten until the name and the rock are one. then he will be truly forgotten for all of enternity. Eternity is a very, very long time. What will he have done on this earth? What will he have acheived? Nothing, absolutely nothing at all. He thought life was a joke, a video-game like the ones he used to play all the time. then, only when he's dying, slowly painfully, from Prostate cancer or some other stupid malady, will he realize his mistake. He'll gasp for live, struggle, he wants to live again, a second chance, but no, he's dead. you only get one chance here. best to make the most of it. try to acheive something, be a thinker, don't be afraid of the big issues, the frightening, cosmic issues, they will make you understand the significance of your one being. and then, finally then, will you go out, live an interesting life, and be truly happy.
my head is feeling tight now. i can't think of any thing to write about. i'm struggling, thousands of thoughts rushing through my head a second. Spain, no, costa rica, maybe, england, maybe, america, maybe. i don't know, you just feel sick when you can't think of anything to write. you're thinking so hard, concentrating on that one thought, the subject of writing, that you lose all your energy. then i realize, just release. remember electric cool aid acid test? just release. let go, live in the NOW. it'll come if you relax. it happens to everyone, even to the best of writers. so of course it will happen to you. so, what do you do? just observe. look at the world around you.
but there's nothing interesting. here's where i am: the middle of a turf football field with a parking lot and a school on one side, and some one-story houses and the forest of the other side. i went into that forest once. it was depressing. there was lots of trash in white plastic bags, beer bottles, baby diapers and junk. how did this stuff get here? must be a big party scene. i'm walking through the thorns and plants and i come to a small stream. up stream, couple of guys are fishing in a small pool near the place where it runs out of the sewer drain. good luck catching anything. down stream, it goes past the historical society down under river road past all the abandoned car dealerships and the office parks and into the Passaic River. Yes sir, once the dirtiest river in all of the United States. probably still is. i've been in a couple of times, and i'm fine, so i don't know. you know, i've always wondered where the river goes. i always see it in motion, under the bridge, by the path, flowing, but where's it coming from? that's for God to know and you to find out.
so that's where i am. nothing special. there's only one other guy on the track anyway. before, there were a couple of maintainence guys kicking field goals. they were terrible, but it was alright. so, i take a look at this guy, and a hate him already. he probably works at one of those sickening office parks. you know the ones, with miles of concrete parking lots, post-modern 1980's architecture, security cameras all over the place. i always drive by these places and i ask myself, "who works here?" now i know. i'd never work at a place like that. i think any sensible person would know why.
just looking at him, i know every minute detail of his life. his new E-class BMW is still on lease, he bought it last year for 40,000 dollars at one of the three dealers in town. he's a local boy, yes sir he is. Summet high school, class of '62, by God. one of the best tailbacks in the state, star pitcher for the team. never won a championship, though. always seemed to come up short every time. sometimes drops in to see the old coach and talk about the program. "so, how's the team this year?" "oh, you know, same old, same old". he's the only one to show interest. "i can help if you want, still got the old arm going," he says, pretending to throw a baseball. "that's what we've got coaches for, fella." we don't want you here. comes down and watches every game, yes sir, ain't missed a game in almost ten years. always there, leaning against the chain-link fence in his tight fit Levi jeans and t-shirt tucked in. he always wears tennis shoes, just in case they might need him. but they never do. he chats with his old classmates at the game. Chuck Wilson, son of Don, the big real-estate magnet in town: "this kid isn't half as good as you. i remember you could throw a cool 90. you had a chance to make it big." he looks at the kid and nods his head. he knows he blew it, but he doesn't care. he's got a grand three story house, cost 2.1 million, two kids, both at Summet High, a beautiful wife, his highschool sweetheart, in fact, and three cars. he's living the life. he plays golf every sunday at Canue Brook, same tee-time, same old high school friends, same score, can't seem to get any lower. in the summer, he's at the country club every weekend, playing in some tournament. he never wins. but he smiles and wears expensive sunglasses nonetheless. only goes to church at Christmas and Easter, dresses up in his best, looking dapper, always drops a cool 20 in the offering, staring up at the deacon looking for a reaction. but she's featureless, and passes on. she doesn't care. she sees the same thirty of them every time and see hates their guts.
never reads, and if he does, only the Star Ledger or the Courier News, best goddam paper in the state of New Jersey, better than the other junk, the New York Times. always goes to the sports section first, looking at how Rutgers did in basketball or football or bowling. he'll read the results to his children and wife. they stare blankly at him, no one cares. he's a Giants and a Mets fan. hopes they'll do better every year, they never do. his wife's car's a Honda mini-van. every Thursday she takes Kevin with his spiked up hair and skinny features down to the Y to AAU basketball. he's a point guard. his dad'll stand on the sidelines in his business suit-he gets home at 4 every day- and shout encouragment to his son. he's the only dad to do this. after the game- the same advice every time- the same "good job, son," and then back home to watch the 30 minute DirectTV highlights of all the weekend football games, even though he's seen them twice already. he fancy's himself an analyst. when his wife calls him to dinner, he says, "one sec, kate, just let me see this play one more time." he checks and rechecks the ESPN.com football section nightly, looking for advice for his fantasy football team. the tips haven't helped him so far. he followed them all, and he's 6th in his league, losing to a 15-year-old punk who plays soccer and couldn't give a shit about football.
in two paragraphs, that's his life. he doesn't do anything interesting at work, just sits and surfs the Internet all day. in fact, no one's quite sure what he does. not even himself. his dad grew up in summit, lived the same life, died in summit, lived his WHOLE FUCKING LIFE in Summit. he's only been out of the country once, to the Atlantas beach resort in the Bahamas. he wants to go back and has been saving up for years. he thinks he knows Spanish and wants to go to Mexico some time. never wants to go to europe, only stupid French and Germans live there, and the British with their strange accents. yes sir, only place he ever goes on vacation is good old Florida, yep, Miami Beach, hulking high rises, thousands of people on the beach, water smelly from kids shitting in it, but he doesn't mind. he got a good cheap travel package from the Walter Long Travel Agency. he doesn't mind at all, even if he has to put their luggage tags on his pieces of black, shapless luggage.
he's the typical america. he's a mindless robot, a child. he holds no opinions of his own, others influence him. he thinks he once had dreams and ambition and aspirations, but he doesn't even know the definition of "aspiration". he thinks it's the best life he can have, wasting his body, his ONE life on this earth, rotting away in some coporate office park at the water cooler talking about the Monday Night Game, when he can be thinking, living, breathing. he could be writing, writing a novel, a poem, traveling, seeing the world, being free, but he's a slave of habit. he doesn't think at all. and when the slightest strange thought comes into his mind, or when someone asks him about religion or life as a whole, he nerviously laughs and switches the subject to the AL wild card race. yes sir, 290 million people live like this in America. this think about that, 290 MILLION dead, unthinking, uncaring, unbelieving minds. what a waste. what a terrible, terrible thing to waste. what'll happen when he's dead? only through the money and material possessions he owned will he be remembered. yes they may last 10 or even 20 years, but once everything's gone, it's gone and there's no way anyone could ever bring him back. yes, his name'll be on a gravestone in the corner of the graveyard by the railroad tracks, but weather and the passage of time will conquer all. his gravestone will become weathered and beaten until the name and the rock are one. then he will be truly forgotten for all of enternity. Eternity is a very, very long time. What will he have done on this earth? What will he have acheived? Nothing, absolutely nothing at all. He thought life was a joke, a video-game like the ones he used to play all the time. then, only when he's dying, slowly painfully, from Prostate cancer or some other stupid malady, will he realize his mistake. He'll gasp for live, struggle, he wants to live again, a second chance, but no, he's dead. you only get one chance here. best to make the most of it. try to acheive something, be a thinker, don't be afraid of the big issues, the frightening, cosmic issues, they will make you understand the significance of your one being. and then, finally then, will you go out, live an interesting life, and be truly happy.
Monday, December 18, 2006
release
why? why? why? nothing is ever good enough, i'm just writing now, thoughts spewing out on the paper, just writing, just releasing, just letting go, just living in the NOW, the kairos, the moment, you know it don't you?
i go in and i spend my whole fucking CPs, and hours, and frees and what do i get? not even a fucking well written. i'll tell you what i fucking get when i work my ass off, i get a fucking, "we want the best for you sweety, but we don't want you to get stuck as a sports editor. people won't take you seriously."
this makes me fucking explode. i just want to blow their fucking heads off, you know that, don't you? well i do. i live it every goddam day. try taking that.
they don't get it. they don't fucking get it, so why do they comment? they think they know what they're talking about, that's why. they think they're some shit smart fucking intellecutals who can march in and fucking get everything right. well, let me tell you, they're NOT.
i need to live my own life. they need to stop living it for me. and you know what gets me? it's like they've got a fucking gun to my fucking head. if you don't do this, we'll take this away. SCREW IT! JUST RELEASE! LIVEINTHEMOMENTFORONCE. STOPWORRYING. they don't get it. they never will.
and when i try to tell them, they're like, "what, you're trying to be like slyter now?" NO, I'M TRYING TO BE MYSELF, you dumb shit. i can act differently without incurring you're wrath, can't i? or will i be squashed and disinigrated in your great HOLY prescene?
i'm beyond anger. i've given up. just let it be. do what you want, don't let them stop you. live your life, not theirs. take their influence only if you agree with them. don't let them take you hostage, fight back, save your pride, your dignity in the face of these hulking titans. you can be free, you know. it's all in the mind, it's all about you. whatever you want.
sorry about the constant profanity, but it needed to be done. we need to release, live, and this is the only place i can do it. it's just these powerful emotions, and you know they can put you in quite a fix. i like them, but it's times like these when i go ballistic.
i go in and i spend my whole fucking CPs, and hours, and frees and what do i get? not even a fucking well written. i'll tell you what i fucking get when i work my ass off, i get a fucking, "we want the best for you sweety, but we don't want you to get stuck as a sports editor. people won't take you seriously."
this makes me fucking explode. i just want to blow their fucking heads off, you know that, don't you? well i do. i live it every goddam day. try taking that.
they don't get it. they don't fucking get it, so why do they comment? they think they know what they're talking about, that's why. they think they're some shit smart fucking intellecutals who can march in and fucking get everything right. well, let me tell you, they're NOT.
i need to live my own life. they need to stop living it for me. and you know what gets me? it's like they've got a fucking gun to my fucking head. if you don't do this, we'll take this away. SCREW IT! JUST RELEASE! LIVEINTHEMOMENTFORONCE. STOPWORRYING. they don't get it. they never will.
and when i try to tell them, they're like, "what, you're trying to be like slyter now?" NO, I'M TRYING TO BE MYSELF, you dumb shit. i can act differently without incurring you're wrath, can't i? or will i be squashed and disinigrated in your great HOLY prescene?
i'm beyond anger. i've given up. just let it be. do what you want, don't let them stop you. live your life, not theirs. take their influence only if you agree with them. don't let them take you hostage, fight back, save your pride, your dignity in the face of these hulking titans. you can be free, you know. it's all in the mind, it's all about you. whatever you want.
sorry about the constant profanity, but it needed to be done. we need to release, live, and this is the only place i can do it. it's just these powerful emotions, and you know they can put you in quite a fix. i like them, but it's times like these when i go ballistic.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
why i was rejected
alright, i've been posting a lot the past couple of days, but i daresay it's time better spent than surfing and doing nothing. and, plus the stress of certain upcoming events ;) wink wink nudge nudge requires me to look on the rational side of things.
which brings us to tonight's discussion. so, i had a conversation with a certain person last night, went very well i'll say, finally got my true feelings out after a fucking eternity. but, the most interesting piece of conversation came when i asked if she thought any other girls would invite me, the answer, which i strangely anticipated (probably cuase she took so much time) was a resounding no (well, not really, in reality, a confused, not confident no, but a no nonetheless). according to her, i'm "too intimidating". interesting. i wouldn't consider myself that type of person, in fact, the contrary.
so, now, to analyze the current situation and decide what action to take. anyway, i spied a certain girl necking with a certain boy today and heard they hold hands in the hallway. great. the one girlfriend i've had at school is fucking going down the toilet to a douchebag who's a fucktard and shitass motherfucking asshole. (too much profanity, i know, but we've got to let the emotions out). basically, i literally almost blew up. but i didn't. luckily, i took the smart way out. i waited, and waited. for once, and it's been a while since this has happened, i wanted to catch her glance. she may be avoiding it, but i don't know. i want to look into her eyes and pierce her heart with my message: come back to me. or, at least make her feel bad/pity me. you never know what'll work. it would be a hard, casual glance, revealing one thousand words all at once: why'd you do this to me? are you coming back? should i even bother? is it worth it? why? why? why?
i think i know the answer and it's taken me a while to recognize it. i think in the past, i've been too afraid of public emotional displays. you know, holding hands, head on the shoulder. one thing i didn't like (and maybe still don't like, i'm not sure) is being completely committed to a long term relationship. i feel like i'm in prison. therefore, i stayed away from her much of the time, but wrongfully so. i really should have come out and told her right away my true feelings and then left her to decide what she wanted to do.
but the past is over, and there's nothing we can do. true, i made a mistake, and i accept that, so i've got to look ahead into the future instead of to the past. water under the bridge. you have to make a choice: whether to fight back, or just let it be and see what happens. i don't know what i'm going to do yet, but whatever my choice, it's going to be a bumpy ride.
eversong- foo fighters- listen to it, it's got a great musical part, lyrics are okay, but i really like how it starts out low, and dull, and then there's this sudden powerful climax, i really like it; it's powerful, and it personifies what i often feel.
SIX days until i'm out. oh, and by the way, i should just mention that i'm not some fucking emo who spends fucking hours listening to music and shit. no, i'm actually a functioning member of society. and we have strong feelings/complicated situations as well.
which brings us to tonight's discussion. so, i had a conversation with a certain person last night, went very well i'll say, finally got my true feelings out after a fucking eternity. but, the most interesting piece of conversation came when i asked if she thought any other girls would invite me, the answer, which i strangely anticipated (probably cuase she took so much time) was a resounding no (well, not really, in reality, a confused, not confident no, but a no nonetheless). according to her, i'm "too intimidating". interesting. i wouldn't consider myself that type of person, in fact, the contrary.
so, now, to analyze the current situation and decide what action to take. anyway, i spied a certain girl necking with a certain boy today and heard they hold hands in the hallway. great. the one girlfriend i've had at school is fucking going down the toilet to a douchebag who's a fucktard and shitass motherfucking asshole. (too much profanity, i know, but we've got to let the emotions out). basically, i literally almost blew up. but i didn't. luckily, i took the smart way out. i waited, and waited. for once, and it's been a while since this has happened, i wanted to catch her glance. she may be avoiding it, but i don't know. i want to look into her eyes and pierce her heart with my message: come back to me. or, at least make her feel bad/pity me. you never know what'll work. it would be a hard, casual glance, revealing one thousand words all at once: why'd you do this to me? are you coming back? should i even bother? is it worth it? why? why? why?
i think i know the answer and it's taken me a while to recognize it. i think in the past, i've been too afraid of public emotional displays. you know, holding hands, head on the shoulder. one thing i didn't like (and maybe still don't like, i'm not sure) is being completely committed to a long term relationship. i feel like i'm in prison. therefore, i stayed away from her much of the time, but wrongfully so. i really should have come out and told her right away my true feelings and then left her to decide what she wanted to do.
but the past is over, and there's nothing we can do. true, i made a mistake, and i accept that, so i've got to look ahead into the future instead of to the past. water under the bridge. you have to make a choice: whether to fight back, or just let it be and see what happens. i don't know what i'm going to do yet, but whatever my choice, it's going to be a bumpy ride.
eversong- foo fighters- listen to it, it's got a great musical part, lyrics are okay, but i really like how it starts out low, and dull, and then there's this sudden powerful climax, i really like it; it's powerful, and it personifies what i often feel.
SIX days until i'm out. oh, and by the way, i should just mention that i'm not some fucking emo who spends fucking hours listening to music and shit. no, i'm actually a functioning member of society. and we have strong feelings/complicated situations as well.
Monday, December 11, 2006
A drum, a drum, Macbeth doth come.
Summer
The music from the Promenade floats by,
Looking at the ashen dying sky,
I see clouds and planes and stars
And headlights from lonely country cars.
The sun sets down the coast,
Father, Son and Holy Ghost
Are with me here tonight
Gone, somewhere far out of sight.
On the sands, we laugh and run,
Wishing to be forever young,
Losing each other in youthful bliss,
Ending in a longing kiss.
Music playing from the band,
Will you take my hand?
She asks and we dance,
For hours and hours in a trance.
The moon above darkened sky,
In the light I see her cry.
The water laps against the pier,
There is nothing more I can hear.
I stare forever at her face,
I hold her tight in my embrace.
And, far, far away down the sand,
I can hear the music of the band.
i really like this poem, i was just fooling around one day and BAM! it came out. i really like the rhyming scheme and the rhythm, it's pretty cool i think, even if it's not the most well written piece. i'm not going to show this at the Club or with mom. i don't know, there's just something too personal about it, i'm not sure what, i mean it's great and all that, but i'm not sure i'm ready, or if i'm ever going to show. there is, of couse, the off chance of a girlfriend reading this sometime in the future, but let's not get too far ahead of ourselves, shall we?
Summer
The music from the Promenade floats by,
Looking at the ashen dying sky,
I see clouds and planes and stars
And headlights from lonely country cars.
The sun sets down the coast,
Father, Son and Holy Ghost
Are with me here tonight
Gone, somewhere far out of sight.
On the sands, we laugh and run,
Wishing to be forever young,
Losing each other in youthful bliss,
Ending in a longing kiss.
Music playing from the band,
Will you take my hand?
She asks and we dance,
For hours and hours in a trance.
The moon above darkened sky,
In the light I see her cry.
The water laps against the pier,
There is nothing more I can hear.
I stare forever at her face,
I hold her tight in my embrace.
And, far, far away down the sand,
I can hear the music of the band.
i really like this poem, i was just fooling around one day and BAM! it came out. i really like the rhyming scheme and the rhythm, it's pretty cool i think, even if it's not the most well written piece. i'm not going to show this at the Club or with mom. i don't know, there's just something too personal about it, i'm not sure what, i mean it's great and all that, but i'm not sure i'm ready, or if i'm ever going to show. there is, of couse, the off chance of a girlfriend reading this sometime in the future, but let's not get too far ahead of ourselves, shall we?
Friday, December 08, 2006
FM
It's sad I don't have something more meaningful in life to grasp on to, but we all must have our whims and pleasures, and this is mine. I hate myself for going on during class checking, checking what? There's nothing new...It's habit, the colleague of addiction. The old habits, hardset, what happens if we break them? Nothing, but we don't know that. We think the world will end, we'll be struck dead by lighting, instantly killed, and, as I'm telling myself all this, I know I'm not ever going to break my habits... Same websites, same routine at night, in the morning.
Simply put, myself, and I think everyone else, is afraid. We're afraid of the one barrier, that flimsy barrier, thinner than tape, that separates us from the normal and the different. It's terrifying to cross into that world. The mind creates a more powerful barrier, making that tape a steel wall six hundred feet in the air, invincible, and we can't cross it. But in reality, it's space and air that separate us. Nothing more, nothing less.
It's strange really, to think that for the 5 months, barring weekends, the first 30 minutes of my day will be exactly the same, no deviation whatsoever. And, in that respect, my day will be the same: go to school, learn, go home, homework, bed. Then, get up and do it again. Honestly put, it's a depressing cycle and a wonder anyone can take it 180 days of the year.
But what motivates us through this monocrity? really, what does? Nothing comes to mind for me. Not friends, not family, not even the desire to learn becuase all this becomes trite eventually. For a future life, then. A future life of what? The same. The exact same! Nothing different! Why don't they see it? Life is a timeline of the same things repeated over and over and over again for 99% of the population. It's a wonder they don't kill themselves. They're missing out on it all.
The thinking man, he is that 1%. He represents a different life, deviating from the norm, crossing that barrier, taking those chances, sometimes failing, sometimes succeeding, but that doens't matter to him. It's merely the action of crossing the line that separates him from 99% of the population. And that's what makes him so radically different from everyone else.
I want to be that 1%. Right now, I can picture and discuss it, but I don't know if I can take risks without fear, for that is the mark of an intelligent man, one who weighs the risks and benefits equally. It's difficult, I'll admit, and I think everyone else would too, if they could connect with me. But habit and addiction, these are my most powerful enemies. And I shall combat them with all my strenght, every ounce of it.
Simply put, myself, and I think everyone else, is afraid. We're afraid of the one barrier, that flimsy barrier, thinner than tape, that separates us from the normal and the different. It's terrifying to cross into that world. The mind creates a more powerful barrier, making that tape a steel wall six hundred feet in the air, invincible, and we can't cross it. But in reality, it's space and air that separate us. Nothing more, nothing less.
It's strange really, to think that for the 5 months, barring weekends, the first 30 minutes of my day will be exactly the same, no deviation whatsoever. And, in that respect, my day will be the same: go to school, learn, go home, homework, bed. Then, get up and do it again. Honestly put, it's a depressing cycle and a wonder anyone can take it 180 days of the year.
But what motivates us through this monocrity? really, what does? Nothing comes to mind for me. Not friends, not family, not even the desire to learn becuase all this becomes trite eventually. For a future life, then. A future life of what? The same. The exact same! Nothing different! Why don't they see it? Life is a timeline of the same things repeated over and over and over again for 99% of the population. It's a wonder they don't kill themselves. They're missing out on it all.
The thinking man, he is that 1%. He represents a different life, deviating from the norm, crossing that barrier, taking those chances, sometimes failing, sometimes succeeding, but that doens't matter to him. It's merely the action of crossing the line that separates him from 99% of the population. And that's what makes him so radically different from everyone else.
I want to be that 1%. Right now, I can picture and discuss it, but I don't know if I can take risks without fear, for that is the mark of an intelligent man, one who weighs the risks and benefits equally. It's difficult, I'll admit, and I think everyone else would too, if they could connect with me. But habit and addiction, these are my most powerful enemies. And I shall combat them with all my strenght, every ounce of it.
Throw yourself away
It's been a while, but I've been busy....
I'm a slave to addiction. I hate it so much, but it's so good. It's the one time I can be free during the day, release my stress. I don't care about anything then. But only if there was a better way... I hate it like this.... I'll say nothing more of it, although i ought to.
Haven't been asked out yet, starting to get a bit antsy...Will do the asking if she doesn't. Although some girls have been sizing me up the past couple of days... Maybe they'll ask me...
Sometimes, it's so difficult to remain above the ignorant masses and stay a thinking, coherent, intelligent human being. It's so easy to slip into that peaceful, ignorant oblivion, that place where life doesn't matter and you live your life doing nothing, it's useless and you throw it away like some five-cent toy. I really wanted to go there today and never come back, becuase everything else felt so bad, but I didn't. I didn't kill my soul or let myself slip away. I stayed above, fought hard, didn't drown. I couldn't. It would be throwing away all I've worked hard at. I could feel myself slowly going under, eyes heavy, IPOD playing, cruising down the road. I didn't want to do anything: no homework, no reading, not even listening. I just wanted to be in that moment forever; that moment of accomplishing nothing, gaining nothing, throwing all away. But I stayed above.
I really should write more, but, addiction is more powerful than reason. Addiction controls the mind, the body, thoughts and feelings. It takes you overboard, to a place you've never gone before and want to stay, and then rudely brings you back. You want to go there again, it's natural, human nature; we look for pleasure and happiness in life; so we go again, again, again, and again until it becomes a vicious cycle and we can't stop. It tears me apart sometimes, I know I'm dirty and rotten, but human nature overrides all.
I need to write more...It feels almost as good as that nirvana, when I've got a lot on my mind. I'm sitting here, right now, thinking nothing...Just an empty void but words are coming down, so I can't be thinking nothing becuase I've got to be thinking of the words to put down on this paper. Or do I?
I'm a slave to addiction. I hate it so much, but it's so good. It's the one time I can be free during the day, release my stress. I don't care about anything then. But only if there was a better way... I hate it like this.... I'll say nothing more of it, although i ought to.
Haven't been asked out yet, starting to get a bit antsy...Will do the asking if she doesn't. Although some girls have been sizing me up the past couple of days... Maybe they'll ask me...
Sometimes, it's so difficult to remain above the ignorant masses and stay a thinking, coherent, intelligent human being. It's so easy to slip into that peaceful, ignorant oblivion, that place where life doesn't matter and you live your life doing nothing, it's useless and you throw it away like some five-cent toy. I really wanted to go there today and never come back, becuase everything else felt so bad, but I didn't. I didn't kill my soul or let myself slip away. I stayed above, fought hard, didn't drown. I couldn't. It would be throwing away all I've worked hard at. I could feel myself slowly going under, eyes heavy, IPOD playing, cruising down the road. I didn't want to do anything: no homework, no reading, not even listening. I just wanted to be in that moment forever; that moment of accomplishing nothing, gaining nothing, throwing all away. But I stayed above.
I really should write more, but, addiction is more powerful than reason. Addiction controls the mind, the body, thoughts and feelings. It takes you overboard, to a place you've never gone before and want to stay, and then rudely brings you back. You want to go there again, it's natural, human nature; we look for pleasure and happiness in life; so we go again, again, again, and again until it becomes a vicious cycle and we can't stop. It tears me apart sometimes, I know I'm dirty and rotten, but human nature overrides all.
I need to write more...It feels almost as good as that nirvana, when I've got a lot on my mind. I'm sitting here, right now, thinking nothing...Just an empty void but words are coming down, so I can't be thinking nothing becuase I've got to be thinking of the words to put down on this paper. Or do I?
Sunday, November 19, 2006
good article
amusing article (for Americans) on the British perspective on American sports:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/other_sports/american_football/6153746.stm
http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/other_sports/american_football/6153746.stm
Monday, October 02, 2006
College Thoughts
So we went on a trip this weekend to see Dartmouth and Williams. I loved the New England weather and the scenery (see attached poem for details) and it made me despise New Jersey a little more. Don't get me wrong, most of New Jersey, especially the north and west along the Deleware are nice, but where I live is the worst place possible: in a surburban waste land. Now, I know I probably sound like that kid whose facebook I showed you, but, unlike him, I'm actually telling the truth.
Anyway, my impressions of both institutions:
Dartmouth: Overall, stunning. Certainly my favorite university physically so far, except for one or two minor things (frats). Really like the location, in the mountains, near a major river (Connecticut) and in the wilderness. Liked the sophormore summer idea, but am a bit uncertain of taking a semester off junior year. I mean, what would I do, and how would I live during that time? Also really liked the surrounding town and the bookstore. A better version of Princeton. Negatives: Director of Admissions was one of the most boring people ever. I literally fell asleep during this presentation. Not the impression I would want to make on visitors. Also, seems like there would be no place for me as an athlete. They're a Division I school- but I could see myself playing club ultimate frisbee, or, better yet, cricket!
Williams: I must admit I was a bit skeptical going in. Just driving around, it looked like a small, watered down version on an Ivy League school without the reputation or the money. Plus, it was also raining so I wanted to get the heck out of there. But, I did stay, and I suprisingly liked the school after going on the campus tour and info session. We stayed at the Williams Inn, an overpriced hotel that looked like my grandmother's house. After going on a run and getting a feeling for the campus and the one-street town, I began to like and could definitely see myself there. About the info session: the director of admissions was a dynamic man who not only gave me information about the campus, but useful hints about the admission process in general. I actually stayed awake, as he kept me occupied. I also learned mroe about the school on the campus tour. For example, the school teaches in a 'tutorial' style a la Oxford where classes consist of two students to one teacher so that you get the most personalized help possible. I also liked that there was the opportunity to go abroad to Oxford for a year. Their semester system is unique in that in between the fall and spring semester, there is a January semester in which students take one class that can have nothing whatsoever to do with their major. Sounds very cool. Also, athletics are a bit more of a possbility here considering the school is Div. III.
Have a lot of tests this week, bet Tylson ;) 5$ that I'd beat him of our science test. Hope I can pull it off.
By the way, I'll post my poem in 30 minutes or so.
Anyway, my impressions of both institutions:
Dartmouth: Overall, stunning. Certainly my favorite university physically so far, except for one or two minor things (frats). Really like the location, in the mountains, near a major river (Connecticut) and in the wilderness. Liked the sophormore summer idea, but am a bit uncertain of taking a semester off junior year. I mean, what would I do, and how would I live during that time? Also really liked the surrounding town and the bookstore. A better version of Princeton. Negatives: Director of Admissions was one of the most boring people ever. I literally fell asleep during this presentation. Not the impression I would want to make on visitors. Also, seems like there would be no place for me as an athlete. They're a Division I school- but I could see myself playing club ultimate frisbee, or, better yet, cricket!
Williams: I must admit I was a bit skeptical going in. Just driving around, it looked like a small, watered down version on an Ivy League school without the reputation or the money. Plus, it was also raining so I wanted to get the heck out of there. But, I did stay, and I suprisingly liked the school after going on the campus tour and info session. We stayed at the Williams Inn, an overpriced hotel that looked like my grandmother's house. After going on a run and getting a feeling for the campus and the one-street town, I began to like and could definitely see myself there. About the info session: the director of admissions was a dynamic man who not only gave me information about the campus, but useful hints about the admission process in general. I actually stayed awake, as he kept me occupied. I also learned mroe about the school on the campus tour. For example, the school teaches in a 'tutorial' style a la Oxford where classes consist of two students to one teacher so that you get the most personalized help possible. I also liked that there was the opportunity to go abroad to Oxford for a year. Their semester system is unique in that in between the fall and spring semester, there is a January semester in which students take one class that can have nothing whatsoever to do with their major. Sounds very cool. Also, athletics are a bit more of a possbility here considering the school is Div. III.
Have a lot of tests this week, bet Tylson ;) 5$ that I'd beat him of our science test. Hope I can pull it off.
By the way, I'll post my poem in 30 minutes or so.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Interesting
Before I begin, just a clarification: I'm writing this not becuase I need a space to vent my mind and rant for hours upon end. I could do that where ever the hell I want. No, I writing this to preserve memories: the little things that I'l forget in the next month or two, but in years, will look back on and smile about and think to myself, "Man, have I changed". So, this is more of a meter to gauge how different a person I become rather than a place to blabber. But, while I do have the opportunity, I might as well mention some interesting things.
Today was a good day in practice. Not, however, in the way I played. I couldn't hit the fricking net; I kept narrowly skying the ball over which was very frustrating. And whenever I did get it on net, it was saved. Anyway, I'll pull that together. But, towards the end of practice, we were going to pick up balls that had completely missed the net and gone over (almost all of them). I went arround looking for some balls near this small shed, while the majority of the players (the douches) went around fucking off. Tom, our coach, a Brit from Manchester (a City supporter, I'll venture rather than United ;)), saw this and made us run. No big deal. Except the good guys on the team weren't doing anything while the retards pulled us down. So we ran and got tired and the rest of practice was very flat and emotionless.
After practice, Tom came up and apologized to me for making me run, but did make a valid point that I'm part of the team, and I have to accept what the team as a whole does. He's what I would call one of the few insightful people in the world. He sees things as they are, not through some distorted kaliedoscope (sp.) as the majority do. He told me what he thinks of the team: "Max is an idiot. He may be big in this school, but wait 'till he gets out into the open world. Then, saw big guy who doesn't like him will come and beat him up. And those three," he said, pointing to Kevin, Sam, and Dan, "are idiots. They do everything he says." Tom did say he'll tell the coaches about the goofs. He also made the point that he really appreciates my helpfulness and "it will be repaid, if not on the football pitch, then later in life."
That's what made me like him. He can see. He has no weights on his eyes. He doesn't look the other way. More people should be like this. I think I'm like this, but I don't like to judge myself. A lot of people aren't like this, and many people that are, are douches (cite: Phyl Ryan quote from his facebook: I only use British English. I believe in equal rights and that America is a fascist wasteland. Don't be surprised if I'm living in London after university. I mean, that just screams: DOUCHE in large capital letters. How could anyone be so stupidly ignorant? He hasn't seen the real world. But, I digress). Anyway, I was going to say that there are very few people in the world who have this special self-awareness.
And I wish there were more people, beucase if there were, the world would be a better place.
Today was a good day in practice. Not, however, in the way I played. I couldn't hit the fricking net; I kept narrowly skying the ball over which was very frustrating. And whenever I did get it on net, it was saved. Anyway, I'll pull that together. But, towards the end of practice, we were going to pick up balls that had completely missed the net and gone over (almost all of them). I went arround looking for some balls near this small shed, while the majority of the players (the douches) went around fucking off. Tom, our coach, a Brit from Manchester (a City supporter, I'll venture rather than United ;)), saw this and made us run. No big deal. Except the good guys on the team weren't doing anything while the retards pulled us down. So we ran and got tired and the rest of practice was very flat and emotionless.
After practice, Tom came up and apologized to me for making me run, but did make a valid point that I'm part of the team, and I have to accept what the team as a whole does. He's what I would call one of the few insightful people in the world. He sees things as they are, not through some distorted kaliedoscope (sp.) as the majority do. He told me what he thinks of the team: "Max is an idiot. He may be big in this school, but wait 'till he gets out into the open world. Then, saw big guy who doesn't like him will come and beat him up. And those three," he said, pointing to Kevin, Sam, and Dan, "are idiots. They do everything he says." Tom did say he'll tell the coaches about the goofs. He also made the point that he really appreciates my helpfulness and "it will be repaid, if not on the football pitch, then later in life."
That's what made me like him. He can see. He has no weights on his eyes. He doesn't look the other way. More people should be like this. I think I'm like this, but I don't like to judge myself. A lot of people aren't like this, and many people that are, are douches (cite: Phyl Ryan quote from his facebook: I only use British English. I believe in equal rights and that America is a fascist wasteland. Don't be surprised if I'm living in London after university. I mean, that just screams: DOUCHE in large capital letters. How could anyone be so stupidly ignorant? He hasn't seen the real world. But, I digress). Anyway, I was going to say that there are very few people in the world who have this special self-awareness.
And I wish there were more people, beucase if there were, the world would be a better place.
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