You may not know it now but I want you to not to forget how much you are learning about yourself right now. College, high school, everything before here was always a clear end to one chapter in your life and all your experiences led you to the clear end of a diploma. Now that you find yourself in the real world with a career there is no golden, far off and ominous peak that has been classified by societies past. But, instead, you have the opportunity to build your own peak; your own idea of what you want to obtain. You don't have to white picket fence it, settle down, or be in one job for your whole life; you can do whatever the hell you want.
All the perceptions of what you wanted or needed your life to be before this do not matter anymore; the only thing that matters is what you decide to do day in and day out with the time that has been given to you (I hope you still recognize the Lord of the Rings reference). Sure, you might be scared sometimes and you might just want to find the ideal comfort zone and stay there but, I urge you, don't do it. Learn something new everyday, make a few mistakes, have fun because that's what life is all about. Life is not about conforming to some social norms that people expect of you but it is conforming to what you believe are norms; what you want out of this short time that you have been blessed with. If you do this, you will possess an open mind and a readiness for experience that people will be envious of.
You will not act your age but you will just act like you. Be this way, be liberal, be open and don't forget about this as life goes on. Don't become one of those grumpy old men you see now in the office because, well, this letter and every thing will just be hypocritical bullshit. You would have become everything that you stood against because you would have been caught in the materialistic world view that has swallowed so many souls. Exercise your mind and interests and through this you will release your soul and you will find reward in everything you do.
Have a conversation with a random stranger, get their viewpoint; go to a movie alone; talk to the coffee lady at starbucks; keep in touch with friends; have an open door; never talk down to anyone; leave it all in the gym; leave it all at work; write; read; love; and be the man that you want to be now and that you want to keep being. Get out of your comfort zone and you'll find the warm touch of a blanket on a cold winter's eve or the cool breeze of a fan on a summer day. Learn, live, love, and do.
Benjamin Krebs, 22 yr old male
I'm 26, an engineer working a 40 hour a week job, and that's really not how I want to be identified. Here, when I'm able to write about things that interest me like books, sports and other musings is where I feel most comfortable and like myself. So come along, read, have a discussion and see if you find a part of yourself that you didn't know you had. If anything, tell me I'm wrong and why.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Monday, January 23, 2012
Crossroads
He told me one day
After a long journey
home
A story of life
Of how he had almost
won
The eyes lit up
He was young again
A man of few words
Enlightened in a
beautiful score
Of peaks and valleys
He told his tale
A man who had been
there and back
Had lived in the
belly of the whale
Jonah encompassed
Which way was north?
He had no clue
Only one pair of
shoes
He had been in a
schoolyard
Had scoffed at the
notion
That women would at
one time
Rule his emotion
It had been so simple
Just a paper and pen
Recess at noon
And a mom to pick him
up after school
It wasn’t until a
mistake was made
That life became a
little more serious
And a lot less sane
In a good way; though
He came into his own
A well-rounded man
Never a bore
Never fully satisfied
Always thinking too
hard
Nitpicking himself
When he didn’t meet
the bar
Like a fine tailored
suit
A long process to
become
Comfortable in your
own skin
And never be in a
slum
Just as soon as it
happened
College was there
Another change of
scenery
Another round of
cares
His father had told
him
Nose to the grind
stone, son
It’s better to think
of a diving board
Because you’re still
so young
He hadn’t felt that
way
Four years of fun
He felt old and ready
To figure it out
Sail away under the
sun
Society dictated
What it thought he
had needed
What it thought
needed to happen
When he made it
through
An honored combatant
People followed the
norm
All around him he saw
People catching
something
Just to fit into a
crowd
A whole life ahead
He thought to himself
But why is everyone
So eager to play
house?
Is it the lighting of
the floors?
The thought of more
The thought of
opportunity
Can frighten people
into a bore
It was this he saw,
the man had said
That caused him to
look ahead
Passed the material blend
To something that
mattered to him
There in was the
question
The thought of matter
What was this life?
A secret ingredient
to the batter
A cross roads had
been reached
But, the man wasn’t
content
There was more to the
gleam
More to a life
Mostly unseen
Was it a crown he
wanted?
Or a white picket
fence?
Or a chance to learn
more
To delay the
deafening roar
Of a world unknown
Of a comfort unfelt
Like a sweater that
itches
Like a mist felt
Written up
Cycled down
Left for dead
Talked abound
What would the tree
grow?
A rose of red or
yellow
Would life turn out?
To be so mellow
Was it the blond with
the smile?
Or the brunette with
the brain?
That made all these
choices
Seem even more insane
Had he come to a
cross roads?
Or a dead end
Time to make new
friends
And settle amends
I tell you, he said
The books still
writing
The only thing I know
The horizon is quite
daunting
As in any person will
say
Its never just a
settled thunder
It is often lighting
That leads to a
plunder
Do not listen to yourself
Do not assume you
know all
You’ll wake up one
day
And realize you were
never on the ball
“Are you even there?
After all this time”
I asked the man
Feeling even more
blind
A tear streamed down
Leaving him strummed
With a thought
lingering
A burning yearn
If you never tell
yourself
You wouldn’t have
done things different
Then you might be
content
Like a mouse in a
kitchen
Living off scraps
With others
permission
But you’ll sit up at
night
Thinking back
To a day of risk
To a day where you
didn’t always round the same track
Live it as such
That’s what I say
Then the tears will
come
Cause a risk taken
Is always easier to wash away
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Miles Lincoln: A Sample from the Novel
Miles Lincoln
was a tall man, a rather tall man. He stood 6’10 but most people guessed him to
be around 7’0 ft. He did not mind this
misconception, he actually quite enjoyed it.
When one is tall or larger than most one tends to get confidence; they
build a conception that they are superior to others. If you wanted to find this conception in its
abundance, you did not have to look further than Miles Lincoln. Miles had been
a star basketball player, had attended North Carolina and played for a brief time
in the NBA. Though most of his time had
been spent in a folded chair to hear him talk about it, it was like he had won
a MVP award. He bragged about going up
against the great Dwight Howard.
Apparently he had blocked him but who knows. Miles had always loved
basketball but the thing he loved more was teaching.
While at North Carolina, between the
parties and national championship, Miles had been able to obtain a degree in
education and gotten certified as a teacher.
When he had taught summer school all of the kids had idolized him;
gathered around him like he was some sort of god. Miles might have told everyone else that he did
it for the kids, for the joy in teaching them live lessons but really it was
his ego that superseded all of that bullshit.
When he was teaching he felt like the kids where getting the best
teaching provided; which was by him.
Whenever he stepped into the classroom he knew he would change someone’s
live; that’s how much confidence existed in Miles rather large head. This is the exact attitude that attracted the
Thinker schools to recruit Miles to represent them.
Miles was teaching in his home town
of Odessa, Texas when he had heard of a new school coming to the area. Miles had loved the idea of the Thinkers, the
best and brightest leading the way, showing others the light at the end of the
tunnel. He, himself, thought he was capable of being one, of showing the
way. When he saw the job announcement
that they were looking for people to help out in any way he immediately jumped
on the opportunity to show these “thinkers” that he belonged with them. Miles
set up an appointment and the school was quite impressed with his appearance
and drive. Miles, though, would not be
given a teaching job but would find his true calling in selling and recruiting
for the school. Miles was not in the classroom, not “changing lives” but he was
the face of the school, the representative.
This was enough to satisfy his ego.
The way he looked at it, these Thinker teachers would not have a job if
it wasn’t for him. He was hoping on this
trip to make the teachers even more grateful for having him around.
Patrick Smith, the boys name, the
file really spoke wonders of him. He had produced greatly in the test but to
Miles that meant nothing. That’s way
they did the test and then sent him in.
A face to face meeting, in Miles opinion, superseded any test. He had been doing this job for 5 years now,
and he knew when he saw a Thinker. Even
at a young age you could tell. They
would often keep to themselves, seeming to be in another place but at the same
time they would be right there, looking at you.
Yes, that look, that was the main thing.
Miles could clearly recall a
recruiting trip to one Marcus Deeds, an 8 year old subject in Richmond,
Virginia. Miles had gone to the house,
had coffee with the mother, talked shop with the father and had then felt a
strange numb feeling on the top of his back.
Upon turning around his eyes had met with Marcus’s. These eyes were bright green, and did not
blink in the 10 seconds that Miles stared at them. These were eyes that seemed to look into the
depths of Miles’s soul; dissecting his life as intricately as a skilled surgeon.
Marcus Deeds found out more about Miles in those 10 seconds then Miles’ parents
ever knew. These eyes were built for
reading, for taking in everything. Marcus was now a thriving 12 year old at the
Thinker school in Richmond, all thanks to Mr. Lincoln.
As he stepped out of the taxi in front of the modest house of
the Smiths, he remembered the look, and hoped to get the same from young
Patrick.
Knock, Knock.
“Hello, Mr. Smith I assume. My name is Miles Lincoln I represent
the Thinkers,” Miles said looking down at the short man.
“Oh, hello, I wasn’t expecting you so early but it’s all good.
Come in, Come in,” Mr. Smith said, studying Miles up and down.
He sure wasn’t expecting to answer the door and find a giant
standing there, but life is full of surprises.
Miles Lincoln? He recognized the name from somewhere, some sport hero he
thought. Seemed a nice man but Mr. Smith
knew that he was just being exposed to the cover and would have to read the
book before judging Miles Lincoln.
“Would you like anything to drink Mr. Lincoln, maybe some
coffee?” Mr. Smith said, as Miles crouched down to enter the house through the
door.
“I would love some water with ice if you got it,” Miles said
standing but having to crouch quick to avoid the fan. He figured he would just
remain bent at the upper back to avoid any other hazards. The position looked uncomfortable but Miles
had gotten used to it over the years. Besides, this position gave him a better
view of the whole house.
The living room was modestly arranged, with two couches and a
television set up in the ideal central location of the room. There were many military pictures; soldiers
of past generations. This family had had many a soldiers but from looking at
the elder Smith Miles could tell that he intended to be the last in the line.
His eyes showed too much content and longing; not for himself but possibly for
his son.
“My father was in Iraqi. Terrible mess that turned out to be
don’t you think Mr. Smith,” Miles said turning his head to Mr. Smith, who was
standing at the sink.
“Well, that’s where I happened to see my first action, Mr.
Lincoln. I was serving my country sir and that’s all I’ll say about that.
Here’s your water,” Mr. Smith said, quite sternly.
Miles knew that answer; that was the answer his father always
gave him when he had discussed the politics of the war. As a soldier his father
never complained, never discussed policies or such. Miles had always pestered him but never got
an answer. At the time Miles had perceived his dad to be hard headed and not
much of an intellectual. As Miles got older he respected his dad for his stance
because it had propelled Miles to strive to be original; to be special. Mr. Smith, it seemed, with considering to put
his son in a Thinker school was trying to branch out as well; something Miles’s
father never did.
“Thank you, Mr. Smith. Is
there any place where we can talk before I see Patrick?” Miles asked, sipping
the water.
“Why would you need to see Patrick? I thought all the tests were
done,” Mr. Smith said, sounding agitated.
“Yes, all the tests are done sir. I would just like to see the
boy and get a feel for him. I know the school inside and out Mr. Smith. I know
who will succeed and who will fail. I know the best teachers and the worst
teachers. I am a representative and I represent the school and the school’s
interests. The school’s interests are, of course, to teach young people to
become Thinkers but in order to first do this we must have adequate students to
teach. The tests are a portion of finding out if the student is adequate. Do
you want to know what the other portion is?”
“I am assuming it has something to do with this visit,” Mr.
Smith said, liking the confidence exerted by the man.
“Correct. You see I am the eyes and ears of the school. I
observe and take in the students that are being evaluated for enrollment and I
conclude. These conclusions I make will make or break your child’s chances of
being officially accepted into the school. I say this now so you are fully aware
of the visit. Now, where can we talk?” Miles said, smiling.
“Right in the kitchen, at that table should be good. That’s
where I meet and talk with my friends and associates. You are one of those
aren’t you Mr. Lincoln?”
“Yes. Since I am than why don’t you call me Miles, Mr. Smith.”
“Okay, Miles,” Mr. Smith said leading the way to the kitchen
table.
Mr. Smith sat down, looking at the peculiar site of a 7 foot man
squeezing into the small kitchen table chair. This man reminded him of some of
the hot gun recruits that came in. Mr. Smith liked those recruits but what he
liked even more was breaking them and then building them up, making them more
confident than ever. With Miles, though, it seemed that it would be impossible
to make his confidence higher. This was a good and bad thing Mr. Smith thought.
“Well,” Miles said.”Let’s start with questions from you, about
the school, the teachers, etc,” he said, shifting back and forth trying to get
comfortable in the chair.
“What kind of education will my son be getting? I am not really
familiar with the Thinker curriculum, actually I don’t think anyone is,” Mr.
Smith said, interested.
“The basic curriculum starts with the skills anyone would need
to survive in this world, Mr. Smith. Math, the social studies, English,
basically the same things taught in a public school. The only difference being that it is all at
an accelerated rate. The basics of all subjects, in Patrick’s case, would be
all taught to him by the time he turns 13. We deal with exceptional students so
thus we can have this accelerated rate of teaching,” Miles said, crossing his
legs and finding a comfortable position.
“What if the students can’t keep up, I guess they fall behind.
Do you compensate for that?”
“In the earlier stages of teaching we can compensate for
slowness. This is only because we have found, in studies, that there is a transition
period for some students; being away from home and all that causes them to
become lax and feel out of place. We
expect this period to last between 6 or 8 months. By then we found that the
children start to take in their situation and make the most of it.
If one of the children were to fall behind in his or her 4th
year at the school we would watch the situation closely for around 2 months. If
there is no improvement within this time period we take it upon ourselves to
reevaluate the student. There is really
no room for stragglers at this school.
That is way it is a Thinker school, Mr. Smith. Only the best come in but
only the better of the best come out. That’s a little phrase I carry around
with me. I like it but if you read in to it too much then it really doesn’t
make any sense,” Miles said, laughing.
“So, if my son were to fall behind he would be kicked out, is
that what you’re saying?” Mr. Smith said.
“He would be reevaluated sir; reevaluated.”
Reevaluated, wow, this guy really did think he was the shit, Mr.
Smith thought.
“What are the costs like, to attend the school?”
“Well, sir, that is the great part. It is free, completely free.
You see, what we do there is, we build for the world’s future; the worlds. We
teach with the sole purpose of changing the world, for the better, through our
students. Our services are for the
world, not for any profit or individual gain. Throw away the pep talk and, well,
we are government funded,” Miles said smiling.
“It seems like since you are government funded, some money would
be going away from the public schooling system.”
“Yes, I suppose. But, of the schools where do you think it would
be better spent? With thousands of children who might succeed or fail or with a
select few who’s only option after coming out of our school is succeeding?”
“Well, I like to think that every child can succeed with the
proper chance. Just because one child
does well on one test doesn’t mean that they should be given any less of an
opportunity,” Mr. Smith said, thinking back to the damn SATs.
“Yes, Mr. Smith, if only it could work like that. America is the
place of second chances, but that’s only if you really mess up. If one has one
bad test day , like let’s say in taking the SATs, they will face the
consequences the rest of their life. But, in these situations, when all the
cards are on the table is when great people, smart people step up to the
challenge. If you can’t step up then you
must step down,” Miles said, sipping on his water.
“Survival of the fittest or a slow wending out of people, kind
of like something I would do with a new batch of recruits. It seems to work
with recruits but with children? My son is only five. I guess what I am trying
to say is, how can we sit here and say that my son can succeed and survive when
he can so easily be turned away at the first sign of failure?” Mr. Smith said,
tearing up in the eyes.
“We cannot Mr. Smith, the only thing we can tell is…,” Miles
said pausing, as he saw a head peak around the couch that was in the adjacent
living room.
The eyes read right through him, analyzing all of Miles’s life
in five seconds. Miles had seen the same eyes in other kids but these eyes,
these were very original. The boy’s green eyes were the only eyes that Miles
had seen power in. This boy was hiding
so much, holding so much power behind those eyes and he didn’t even know
it. This power, though, was it good?
Miles was overwhelmed by it; taken aback; his chest filling up like he had just
held his breath under water. Miles had seen power in the wrong hands, power
used not for the good of humanity but for individual gain. This boy was innocent, had no idea of his
potential. What if this potential was unleashed? Would it serve a greater good
or would it make this world an even worse place?
“With education at this school, no one can fail…blah…blah…blah,”
Miles’s interviewer had said when he had gone to become a part of the Thinker
organization. For the first time since Miles had taken the job he began to feel
that this school, might bring out parts of this child that should not be
brought out. But, this boy could offer so much, could help so many people Miles
thought. Just because he rubs you the wrong way, well, it doesn’t mean
anything. For the first time, Miles
began to question his importance, his value; for the first time Miles did not
feel in control. The boy, his damn eyes,
were controlling him, making him unsure of himself.
“There he is, my boy. Patrick why don’t you come on over and say
hello to Miles,” Mr. Smith said, ushering Patrick over.
Patrick was quite taken aback by the giant that was sitting next
to his father. Patrick thought that this
man should go back up the beanstalk. But, like all things Patrick had not
encountered before, he was drawn to the giant, to meet him; he wanted to
understand. Patrick walked over, making sure to look the giant straight in the
face, not taking his eyes off of him, just to show he wasn’t intimidated by
him. “Stand tall,” his dad always told him.
“Hello, Patrick. It is very good to finally put a face with all
of the talk. There has been a lot of talk about you, my boy,” Miles said, eyes
watering up a little.
“You’re a big man, really big,” Patrick said, staring into Miles’s
eyes.
“Yes, I have heard that before. I like being this big actually,
maybe one day you will be.”
“Maybe,” Mr. Smith said, “but I highly doubt it. The tallest
person to come from my family was only around six feet tall,” Mr. Smith said,
smiling.
“What about his mother’s side?”
“Mom isn’t here anymore, she left to go help people. She’ll be
back though, that’s what dad says,” Patrick said, smiling thinking of his
mother.
“Yes she will, yes she will Patrick,” Mr. Smith said, holding
back tears and trying to hold back memories of a bad past.
“Oh I am sure she will,” Miles said gazing at Mr. Smith.
It was that kind of gaze that Mr. Smith knew, the kind that
said, “I’ve got you made suka.” Miles knew about Mrs. Smith, knew what had
happened three years ago; on Christmas Eve out of all the days. It had been tough, so tough that Mr. Smith
still couldn’t come to terms with it and thus was lying to Patrick. He was
trying to warp reality to hide the demons of the past. He figured if you lied
enough it would all eventually turn to truth.
“Yes, well Miles would you like to talk to Patrick a little
while, one on one of course?” Mr. Smith said trying to change the subject.
“Yes, eventually but I would like to talk to the both of you
together first. I like to see that the
parent and child are on the same page, that there are no secrets, no
information that both do not know,” Miles said, smiling.
That bastard, Mr. Smith thought. Who is he to judge what he
should or should not tell his child? Patrick did not need to know the hardships
of life, what pain a woman could cause, not now. Or did he? Mr. Smith had often
voiced his dissatisfaction in the sheltered youth; the kind of kid that thought
that the world was a gentle place not a place that would eat your life up. These
kinds of people had to be shown that life and this world is tough, that things
don’t always go your way. By telling his son a lie, Mr. Smith was really sheltering
his son and making himself a hypocrite. The people that he criticized he had
now become. He would have to tell his son, if he were to go to this school he
would have to tell him. If he didn’t it might hurt their relationship the rest
of their life.
He wanted the best for his son, he wanted to give him the world.
Mr. Smith, though, would not be able to show his son the evils and let downs of
the world for a long time.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Personalities Unknow
What I saw wasn’t
there
A picture unpainted
A mouse untrapped
Behind a blank
curtain
It is not for certain
Mind unseen
From a glitter no
gold
Come on up
Show us on the board
Step lightly through
the dust
Make no fuss
It is through the
night
That a light dims
none
A cycle of content
Through a landscape
of discontent
Not knowing anything
When you’re expected
to know all
Sensing a society
Not known to a later
Thoughts of culture
Seen through the eyes
of clowns
A car not fit for
five
A life undone by
prose
A hook-up to nothing
Stepping closer to
infamy
Climb the tree to be
fit
Stay closer to me to
remain unseen
Get up to never sit
down
Throw-up from another
night out
Can’t understand the
thinking
Behind experiences
made
Throughout countless
hours
Memories lost and
gained
Through dust the
boots kick up
Over a blonde dawn
To a brunette evening
Without cause to be
made
A lack of daunting
But always wanting
Minds fixated with
greed
Faces invested with
lust
Drinks made with the
leaves
Of sexual flavors
made undone
Heartless thoughts
unveiled
Of fractions of
constitutions
Clear and pictured
from form
Clothes worn to many
plaids
Conforming to make
norms
Attesting to Gods
unseen
Principles cemented
Heart cut in half
Too many times to
know
Just wanting a
straight answer
From personalities
unknown
Monday, January 16, 2012
An Instant As A Dog
Oh man, oh man, oh man....gotta get, gotta get up....something's outside, something's outside; I gotta get up. Now I'm up but no one else is....what's going on? SLURP,SLURP, SLURP....Good water, oh man...what am I going to do today? So much time so much time...oh...wait....something's moving; walk time! Walk time! Oh man, oh man.....I got to jump....I'm jumping....
Lick! Lick! Lick!
"Max! Get off you...Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah..."
Ears back; ears back....keep bugging him...keep bugging him....he'll get up....he'll get up. Lick, lick....
"Blah, blah,blah....outside."
Outside....oh man outside....there's so much stuff out there.....trees, rabbits, toys, rabbits,rabbits, rabbits!!!!!!
Its never bright out here; why is it never bright out here? Oh man, no rabbits...I should lay down and save some energy....walk time is coming; its getting close. I got to go...I got to go.....ah, got some on my leg....ah man, ah man.....BARK! BARK!...Now they know I'm here....everything can start now...come on bunnies, come on bunnies....lets go! lets go!.......I'm tired.....
Lick! Lick! Lick!
"Max! Get off you...Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah..."
Ears back; ears back....keep bugging him...keep bugging him....he'll get up....he'll get up. Lick, lick....
"Blah, blah,blah....outside."
Outside....oh man outside....there's so much stuff out there.....trees, rabbits, toys, rabbits,rabbits, rabbits!!!!!!
Its never bright out here; why is it never bright out here? Oh man, no rabbits...I should lay down and save some energy....walk time is coming; its getting close. I got to go...I got to go.....ah, got some on my leg....ah man, ah man.....BARK! BARK!...Now they know I'm here....everything can start now...come on bunnies, come on bunnies....lets go! lets go!.......I'm tired.....
Sunday, January 15, 2012
The Ritual
The lights were dim, making the whiskey shine through the transparent glass. Before the first sip there was an instant where he didn't even want to drink the whiskey; where he wanted to sit there and admire it for the two hour Friday ritual that had been a constant for the past few weeks. The ritual took place at some bar in some different part of the city every some Friday. All different faces, different music except for three constants that were connected to him like extra arms or legs.
Constant 1: Whiskey on the rocks
Constant 2: An empty stool to his left and right
Constant 3: The constant feeling of "what now?"
The feeling swirled around in his mind like the whiskey he would sometimes swish back and forth before the second or third sip. Before the ritual all of the dealings of the day; work, family, friends, working out, suppressed the feeling; made him live in the moment. But, the ritual brought him back to the grand picture, the idea that had evolved into being dubbed his life. What would he do now with all the time in the world and empty stools next to him? He expected the ritual to figure this out for him; as if the ritual had developed into an entity all by itself; filling the stools next to him and pouring his drink.
But, the ending was the same but never the same. A drink or two later he would see a pretty group of girls sitting across the bar; laughing, talking, surpassing the same feelings he was sure they shared with him. He would smile at one, maybe two of the girls; hoping to find some electric attraction that would sometimes levitate him to the other side of the bar; only in time to get a number or disguised words that said "get away". Accomplishment would set in as he was able to take the easiest step on the path to getting to know a woman but it would eventually lead to disappointment as pessimistic Jiminy Cricket's danced around in his head telling him that the phone call or text would end as so many other phone calls or texts had ended; with no return. It was all the same ending; as if the number had never even transgressed between the two. He would end up knowing the most about them before even knowing them.
The argument with the cricket's was than interrupted by the surge of optimism offered by a Mr. Jack Daniels or a Mr. Jameson. They came booming in; men with long breads, happy guts and optimism followed by meandering to invite some of their brothers in to join the party. They were always very convincing; sometimes convincing enough to lead to a cab ride home. Most of the time he sobered up; with a water and some bull shitting with the bar tender who was caring just enough to warrant a tip. By that time any ride, whether it be in a cab or in his own car, led to a period of self reflection that only made him never want to do the ritual again.
He thought it was all pointless and settled nothing; he even thought that at this very point it had made everything worse. All of this nonsense that led to nonsense; all of this thinking that made him never want to think again. The ritual had ended on another Friday night with him alone and those same two empty stools circling in his head; no longer occupied by Jameson, Jack, or the cricket. Instead the feeling of "what now" was the only constant that followed him from beginning to end in the ritual. You could say that one constant was the whole reason for the ritual; the whole reason he woke up the next morning and felt like it had all been worth it.
He had learned something, he had found something out about himself through the ritual and he wanted more. He wanted to learn, he wanted to figure it all out through experience; through getting lost in all kinds of places, even if those places were at the bottom of a whiskey glass. He wanted to wander, he wanted to enjoy; he wanted to get as far away as possible from all the of the thoughts that swirled in his head at the end of the ritual. Then, though....it all set in: Work, Family, Friends...everything that made him come back to the ritual; to a different bar, on a different Friday, with a different glass. All that he had learned or thought he had learned the week before was gone and was all hidden; at the bottom of a glass.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Encounters
Act 1
Times you act
Like you’re not what you are
Everyone questions
You know its fact
What you say
What you do
It is pure and
Good
You go off instinct
Off a gut that lingers
For something more
Something so soft in your fingers
Flowing brown hair
A smile worth a million words
A body and mind
That shows the beauty in the world
A talk that is fluid
Like you never didn’t know her
The most natural thing
That makes your heart sing
A chance encounter
Something with a little liquid courage
That turned out to be
Just your bowl of porridge
You couldn’t stop looking at her
You couldn’t stop talking to her
You met an angle
That you didn’t want to let away
To another night of regret
To another night of content
That voice, that talk
The stuff that made her
Do that walk
The whole package
The real McCoy
I hope I see her again
I hope I didn’t annoy
Friday, January 13, 2012
A Poem
What happened to you, myself?
No more hope wandering
Weighed down by the pillars of society
Trapped in a cubicle jungle
Laughing with dying men at sour jokes
Lying through teeth of tigers
Fierce at the hunting hour
Stalking a pray of grandeur
Forcing the misconception of relevance onto dullness
What happened to you, myself?
Of questioning sprits now unearthed
Scrolling past statues to judge lies of steel machines
Conjuring up get-rich quick scams for 20-year lives
Commuting back and forth between dream and reality
Finding no time to take a leap
Only questioning one’s self
Fear of failure playing faint tunes
What happened to you, myself?
A year away from commonality
Scaring yourself into the back of the herd
Wanting to lead but not be led
Writing to release contemporaries
Prosing through to express pink undersides
Feeling the urge of the seductive temptress
Wanting to seem the stronger person
What happened to you, myself?
Playing tricks in the back of your head
Dealing our hands against the odds
The future unwritten
Splitting the atom of success and anonymity
Correcting the state of boredom through drug
Finding an excuse four nights of the week
Put it on the rocks to comfort the headache
What happened to you, myself?
Now you must become a man, son
Look into the light
And feel the weight of responsibility
Stuck in a roller chair of lost aspirations
Lost in a sea of text, paper, dried ink of waste
Floating on a platform of what ifs
Young discontinuing relevance
What happened to you, myself?
Struggling above the line
Crawling away from the pit of victims
Summing up feelings through plastered after thoughts
What happened to you, myself?
Entangled in weeks of false lore
Stepping in puddles raining from doubt
Thinking ever turn will led to a dead end
Doubting the conclusion that you’ve done enough
Running from pestering ghosts
Climbing to meet expectations
Only breathing on the weekends
What happened to you myself?
A brick in the ocean
Floating along; waiting
Past rosy afternoons fading into black evenings
Running out of false time
Intro
I write because I’m lost. I write to find the meaning through
the words. I write to settle in the pages.
I write to escape to a place where I can be found. I write because
there’s no other universe where it would be proper to not. I write because of
the way it makes my fingers feel. I write because of the thoughts I can’t
communicate any other way. I write to impress. I write to feel sophiscated and
form thoughts of grandeur. I write to pass the time. I write to hang out in
coffee shops. I write because it sets me apart. I write for words so I don’t
have to talk. I write without prose or purpose to give my world order. I write
to feel the day again; every action, thought, and perception. I write to
capture. I write to be free. I write with the independence and imagination of a
child and the ignorance of a senior. I
write because I hate people. I write because I love all human beings. I write
to find love in words and to justify not finding it in reality. I write to
describe unknown entities. I write because it’s my label.
I write
to focus. I write to pass the time and justify a cappuccino. I write because it
comes so easy and so hard. I write to
show the mind I still can. I write to set myself apart. I write to give
interviews, in my head, on the new best seller from Ben Krebs. I write to find
more reasons to write. I write because I have no reason to write. I write to
rhythm the keyboard with my life; but not in a cheesy way. I write to amplify
feelings and actions. I write because I know at least one person will be
reading. I write because it flows well with Pink Floyd music. I write late at night
just to stay up. I write in the morning to put myself to sleep. I write to
change it up. I write to tell a story. I write to be serious. I write to be
funny. I write to see if it sounds any good. I write so I have something to
talk to other people about. I write to make myself interesting. I write to feel
different. I write because it is what needs to be done. I write to live away
from the mundane and hectic. I write to stay inside a larger box. I write to
see all of myself. I write because I can’t say these things to others. I write
because I’m afraid. I write because it is what I want to do. I write to connect
on another level. I write to climb to the top of the bean stalk. I write to
catch the fish. I write to travel to California. I write to get away from Big
Brother. I write to represent my section. I write to find the Dark Tower. I
write to destroy the ring. I write to float away into bliss; invisible from
all. I write to take the road less traveled. I write to find the inferno. I
write because it’s just business. I
write because I never fucked your wife. I write because tigers love pepper. I
write for the glory of it all. I write because I’m not five foot nothing.
I write to find the one thing that
I’ll be searching for every day, every hour, every minute, every second. I
write to find meaning. I write to eclipse convention. I write to unite under
non-commonality. I write to keep traveling so I can find myself. I write
because it is the one thing I know I love. I write to find appreciation. I write
to find love.
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