I was just doing a little myspacing when several profile names caught my eye. Banners of "i love brian mgee" or "i love jenna o'reilly." After reading a number of these and considering the age group of my peers and their understanding of things such as love, i began to ponder. Perhaps Brian is in love with Jenna, but more than likely they will break up in a mass confusion of text messaging, the returning of borrowed sweatshirts and an orgy of gossipy rumors. The question is whether Brian and Jenna really are in love, maybe the perception of the less competent only allows the boundaries of love to carry them so far. This may seem bad, but maybe its better. In honest truth, I could be one who has a great big banner to flaunt the love of my sweetheart in front of the internet masses, but I cannot. However, I do know that later on in life, my love for a woman will be more intense than any high school "Notebook" relationship has ever been ever to emulate: Hence the reason that my loneliness right now does not depress me.
another issue i shall address upon the deaf ears of the high school nation.
A fairly gothic looking couple exist in my school. I know the boy very well and think he may by slightly affected by FAS. His mother is an alcoholic and I have never heard his father mentioned. The boy wears pants big enough to use as a tent in the wilderness and even dons what look like chains and stakes to pitch it with. Often he wears a black sleeveless, though his arms are not particularly intimidating. A blue bandanna rides over his brow and around his long black sometimes greasy hair. He smells of cigarette smoke and mildew and i worry that he does not often get the chance to shower.
The girl is quite large and conceivably carrying a child. Usually her clothing is a size two small, showing the overhang of her stomach which rides over the band of her sweatpants. She does not smell notably pleasant herself, but sometimes her breath carries the aroma of a strawberry sucker or a blue jolly rancher.
In any case, the two bother no one and proceed to carry on with their own business. However, it seems whenever they make a public appearance around an aggregation of students they become the marrow of exchange. I usually interject with a "who cares" or a "so," but regardless the mindless jabber continues.
Im not that pissed off about the subject because nobody is really mean to, or in front of the couple
i just think its stupid.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Enjoying Summer, Sun Burns and Blisters
I spend my summers sweating out on the Diamond Tail Ranch working for my uncle and grandparents. It’s a modest job, but it pays well and leaves the worker with a great sense of accomplishment. I have both fond and not so good memories, but none I regret. It’s the simplest memories I cherish and recall the most vividly.
The sun beats down on my now soaked back as sweat slides down my temple. Catching the gentle curve of my cheek, the salty drop leaves a shining damp trail all the way to the tip of my nose where it falls into the hole I am digging. On occasion, I pause, and search for a breath in the humid air. The horses are at a stand still in the dusty road behind me resting their tales because the insects can stand the heat no better and have searched out shady leaves under which to hide. In between holes I walk to the old silver truck my uncle owns. Weather ridden and showing signs of rugged use, the truck’s open cab contains an inviting dusty seat and an insulated water bottle. Sometimes the horses walk over and smell the bed, looking for the remnants of oats left behind by torn burlap bags. Steve Miller is barley recognizable through the blown door speakers and would barely be receivable regardless of the truck’s current speaker conditions, but I listen anyways. Something about the music is nearly motivational to the working boy, perhaps because we saw our fathers outside working on the porch listening to the same tunes and feel manly and grown up when it is finally the soundtrack to our own day. I pull the water bottle over and turn the nozzle, tipping it up I drink until my stomach can hold no more. In the time it takes me to walk back to my hole, it seems as if I never even had touched the water.
Each post hole is different than the last. Some will have a barrier of dirt, packed and hoof trodden, as if challenging its spade in hand aggressor. At first the hole is hard and slow, but as the barrier is slowly churned into a pile next to the hole, the soil softens. Occasionally nature throws a contemptuous rock in the way of my blade and requires me to reach a hand into the hole and pry it out. For the first few holes I wipe my hands in the grass to free them of the hole’s grime, but before my digging is done I accept the dirt as part of my day and enjoy the feeling it brings me when I wash it from my hands revealing a hard days earning of blisters.
Usually sometime around 5, 6 or 7:00, I slide into the pickups dusty seat by myself and other times with the other hired hand Louise. If Louise is along, he drives and I watch the posts freshly planted in the earth roll by my window. We make a run to the local fill station for the usual six pack of Miller Light, which Louise says has a more pleasing flavor and does not induce the headaches that other beers give him. Handing me one of the cool bottles, he gets in the truck complaining about the twenty-five cent increase in the product and how the fridge temperature is never cold enough in the fill station. I usually sip along slowly on one or two of the brews, sloshing the bubbly chilled beverage around my pallet, letting my tongue search out the bitterness of the hops and the smooth grainy flavor of the barley. The beer is not a means of getting drunk or a juvenile stunt, but a symbol for the end of a hard day’s work.
After Louise and I finish our ritual, we bump along back down the rain ruined roads to the barn. I then jump in the battered old Jeep Comanche that stands under the barn overhang and head on up to the grandparents house for dinner. More often than not this summer, my grandparents were gone when I arrived home. They spent much of their time in the bighorn mountains relaxing and escaping the stress of the valley life. I'd steal another beer from my grandfathers fridge and head for the basement.
I spend my summers sweating out on the Diamond Tail Ranch working for my uncle and grandparents. It’s a modest job, but it pays well and leaves the worker with a great sense of accomplishment. I have both fond and not so good memories, but none I regret. It’s the simplest memories I cherish and recall the most vividly.
The sun beats down on my now soaked back as sweat slides down my temple. Catching the gentle curve of my cheek, the salty drop leaves a shining damp trail all the way to the tip of my nose where it falls into the hole I am digging. On occasion, I pause, and search for a breath in the humid air. The horses are at a stand still in the dusty road behind me resting their tales because the insects can stand the heat no better and have searched out shady leaves under which to hide. In between holes I walk to the old silver truck my uncle owns. Weather ridden and showing signs of rugged use, the truck’s open cab contains an inviting dusty seat and an insulated water bottle. Sometimes the horses walk over and smell the bed, looking for the remnants of oats left behind by torn burlap bags. Steve Miller is barley recognizable through the blown door speakers and would barely be receivable regardless of the truck’s current speaker conditions, but I listen anyways. Something about the music is nearly motivational to the working boy, perhaps because we saw our fathers outside working on the porch listening to the same tunes and feel manly and grown up when it is finally the soundtrack to our own day. I pull the water bottle over and turn the nozzle, tipping it up I drink until my stomach can hold no more. In the time it takes me to walk back to my hole, it seems as if I never even had touched the water.
Each post hole is different than the last. Some will have a barrier of dirt, packed and hoof trodden, as if challenging its spade in hand aggressor. At first the hole is hard and slow, but as the barrier is slowly churned into a pile next to the hole, the soil softens. Occasionally nature throws a contemptuous rock in the way of my blade and requires me to reach a hand into the hole and pry it out. For the first few holes I wipe my hands in the grass to free them of the hole’s grime, but before my digging is done I accept the dirt as part of my day and enjoy the feeling it brings me when I wash it from my hands revealing a hard days earning of blisters.
Usually sometime around 5, 6 or 7:00, I slide into the pickups dusty seat by myself and other times with the other hired hand Louise. If Louise is along, he drives and I watch the posts freshly planted in the earth roll by my window. We make a run to the local fill station for the usual six pack of Miller Light, which Louise says has a more pleasing flavor and does not induce the headaches that other beers give him. Handing me one of the cool bottles, he gets in the truck complaining about the twenty-five cent increase in the product and how the fridge temperature is never cold enough in the fill station. I usually sip along slowly on one or two of the brews, sloshing the bubbly chilled beverage around my pallet, letting my tongue search out the bitterness of the hops and the smooth grainy flavor of the barley. The beer is not a means of getting drunk or a juvenile stunt, but a symbol for the end of a hard day’s work.
After Louise and I finish our ritual, we bump along back down the rain ruined roads to the barn. I then jump in the battered old Jeep Comanche that stands under the barn overhang and head on up to the grandparents house for dinner. More often than not this summer, my grandparents were gone when I arrived home. They spent much of their time in the bighorn mountains relaxing and escaping the stress of the valley life. I'd steal another beer from my grandfathers fridge and head for the basement.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
ive spent alot of time lost in my life, looking for some guidance that never showed up. i do not attribute this to my mother or father, they have given me more useful advice than most parents. but yet, even with it i have found ways to lose myself. sometimes i wonder why solutions seem so close, but the hole im in feels so deep.
not long ago, i realized who i was and that i am proud of it. i have spent the better part of my life trying to be someone else, and i have decided that i don't have enough time to spend it mimicking another.
i think a man can be measured by his responsibility and perhaps his pride. what a man will do for the ones he loves and what he loves. if a man works a job and does not like it, he has been beaten, but if he does what he loves and does it well, he is the winner.
my promise to myself is to do what i love with who i love and to make sure that she has everything she wants and nothing less. perhaps a bold promise for a young man, but what better time than now to set such boundaries.
happiness isn't hard to find, but there are a lot of people who will stop you from getting it if you let them. those people don't physically stop you, you stop yourself with their opinions, beliefs and ideas for you. im going to throw such things aside, and live.
" you can either get through life, or you can live it. and if you want to live it there's only two things you need; an inquisitive mind and a fearless heart"- Steve Earle
not long ago, i realized who i was and that i am proud of it. i have spent the better part of my life trying to be someone else, and i have decided that i don't have enough time to spend it mimicking another.
i think a man can be measured by his responsibility and perhaps his pride. what a man will do for the ones he loves and what he loves. if a man works a job and does not like it, he has been beaten, but if he does what he loves and does it well, he is the winner.
my promise to myself is to do what i love with who i love and to make sure that she has everything she wants and nothing less. perhaps a bold promise for a young man, but what better time than now to set such boundaries.
happiness isn't hard to find, but there are a lot of people who will stop you from getting it if you let them. those people don't physically stop you, you stop yourself with their opinions, beliefs and ideas for you. im going to throw such things aside, and live.
" you can either get through life, or you can live it. and if you want to live it there's only two things you need; an inquisitive mind and a fearless heart"- Steve Earle
Thursday, May 17, 2007
John Prine
a sleepless 3 days would be consuming had it not been for the few hours i napped in the early mornings of new days.
last night i visited a montanian theatre and watched a man who wrote songs for everyone that ever lived the country life. with a smile to big for his face and a heart in just the right place, he moved the crowed. bar room junkies and front porch loungers are his target audience and he entertains them with three chords and a head full of words.
im inspired by this man.
last night i visited a montanian theatre and watched a man who wrote songs for everyone that ever lived the country life. with a smile to big for his face and a heart in just the right place, he moved the crowed. bar room junkies and front porch loungers are his target audience and he entertains them with three chords and a head full of words.
im inspired by this man.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
savvy
i'd like to roll right, to be everybodies laugh and to be completely enjoyed. to live in the sunshine and pour the clouds down the drain. it probably wont happen, but i will try to please everybody and in return perhaps will be pleased. being nice no better than being mean, they just recieve different results.
people are mirrors reflecting the every action of our existance, perhaps absorbing the things we do as well. whether one knows it or not, the bible is a self help book that has nothing to do with others, yet it affects all at the same time. it is your guide to make life easier. people can say that it is to improve the world and make it a better place, but the world isnt getting better. their will always be the bad and the good and the exitement and heartbreak. the way you treat others and percieve life will determine how your own is lived. most of the time people want nothing more than to be liked and respected. on occasion their is one to be loved, but that is a different matter completely.
perhaps you are a dick, and you think that it is to your own personal benifit because dicks get along well with others in high school, or at least seem to. however, if you are the jerk, no matter how nice people treat you in public, behind your back you are ridiculed and talked down on. i dont mean to judge anyone, and being an asshole is understandable. in high school you are rewarded with laughs and agreements for being mean. a person begins to feel that they are doing right if they are rewarded, therefor it the peoples fault for molding the asshole into what he/she is.
lifes a tightrope, and a thin one at that. one can stand around and complain and bitch about how terrible the world is and how they wish everyone would be nicer, but what really matters is how one acts out in the world. enjoy people and their quirks and wierdness, these people will always be around and you cannot make a perfect world, if you suggest that it is possible you are suggesting the same idea as hitler and judging all who oppose you.
people are mirrors reflecting the every action of our existance, perhaps absorbing the things we do as well. whether one knows it or not, the bible is a self help book that has nothing to do with others, yet it affects all at the same time. it is your guide to make life easier. people can say that it is to improve the world and make it a better place, but the world isnt getting better. their will always be the bad and the good and the exitement and heartbreak. the way you treat others and percieve life will determine how your own is lived. most of the time people want nothing more than to be liked and respected. on occasion their is one to be loved, but that is a different matter completely.
perhaps you are a dick, and you think that it is to your own personal benifit because dicks get along well with others in high school, or at least seem to. however, if you are the jerk, no matter how nice people treat you in public, behind your back you are ridiculed and talked down on. i dont mean to judge anyone, and being an asshole is understandable. in high school you are rewarded with laughs and agreements for being mean. a person begins to feel that they are doing right if they are rewarded, therefor it the peoples fault for molding the asshole into what he/she is.
lifes a tightrope, and a thin one at that. one can stand around and complain and bitch about how terrible the world is and how they wish everyone would be nicer, but what really matters is how one acts out in the world. enjoy people and their quirks and wierdness, these people will always be around and you cannot make a perfect world, if you suggest that it is possible you are suggesting the same idea as hitler and judging all who oppose you.
Monday, April 23, 2007
breakfast today concluded
I lie naked in an empty bathtub comparing the differences between me and it. What is a bathtub without water? it is useless, it has no reason to exist until it is once again filled with water to cleanse a body.
Maybe the same is true of a man, maybe without being filled with a sense of being. by sense of being i mean understanding, meaning, purpose, love and happiness. i am an empty bathtub in a cold house. i have no sense of being. i am not writing to complain, i simply don't know who the hell i am or what i plan to do with myself. I am an empty bathtub.
new subject.
electronics
more, more, more pleads the man they call Public. he has an imaginary friend named Truth and kicks his dog named Creativity. he is the inventor of the garage door opener and the killer of aids victims.
The man usually locks into his favorite television program for hours and forgets to feed his dog. The program kills Truth because he requires to much concentration. On the television he watches Pleasure and Lust preform a duet after king of the hill and before the simpsons.
Public enjoys shopping and clubbing, Dreams scare him and Art confuses him. Public doesn't worry about his wife Future because the gas prices worry him so and she doesn't tell him what she's thinking if he doesn't ask. Public loves to recieve "stuff", but giving is strenuous and he sees no benifits. Public is tempermental and lets his emotions get the better of his head. Sometimes he gets into fights before he thinks and tries to quit halfway through even though the damage is already done.
most of all, Public has few friends, his best one being himself.
Maybe the same is true of a man, maybe without being filled with a sense of being. by sense of being i mean understanding, meaning, purpose, love and happiness. i am an empty bathtub in a cold house. i have no sense of being. i am not writing to complain, i simply don't know who the hell i am or what i plan to do with myself. I am an empty bathtub.
new subject.
electronics
more, more, more pleads the man they call Public. he has an imaginary friend named Truth and kicks his dog named Creativity. he is the inventor of the garage door opener and the killer of aids victims.
The man usually locks into his favorite television program for hours and forgets to feed his dog. The program kills Truth because he requires to much concentration. On the television he watches Pleasure and Lust preform a duet after king of the hill and before the simpsons.
Public enjoys shopping and clubbing, Dreams scare him and Art confuses him. Public doesn't worry about his wife Future because the gas prices worry him so and she doesn't tell him what she's thinking if he doesn't ask. Public loves to recieve "stuff", but giving is strenuous and he sees no benifits. Public is tempermental and lets his emotions get the better of his head. Sometimes he gets into fights before he thinks and tries to quit halfway through even though the damage is already done.
most of all, Public has few friends, his best one being himself.
thats educational
sitting in seats sweating and waiting for time to pass while dreaming of ice cream bars and social events. i don't dislike classes, i dislike teachers. my brain builds walls to block out rants of off subject teachers that facinate mediocre students with talk of puppies and new cars. i want to learn about the great men and women that walked the earth, as well as the terrible ones. i want to learn of wonderful writers and paintings in paris. i have places to go and things to do, i have no time to waste on small talk and offsubjectness.
teachers are the most assuming of any. class subjects change at the speed swallowed gum digests while kids doodle sketches of a masterpiece on thier math homework. thats education today.
the teenage brain is so under estimated and so ill advised, and i am finding it hard to continue cooperating. i think i may just snap
one day i will snap, i will stand up on my desk and say "fuck you and your kids social problems. fuck the new car you got and fuck the fact that your husband hates the dishes. fuck this goddamn textbook and fuck the corrupt news that speaks of a boy stealing a balloon in a theme park while people die in iraq because bob jones has to be a good christian and drive his oil guzzling monster truck to church on sundays and wednesdays.
we are in a prison with teachers that rape our thoughts and hold back our inspirations. how are we to cope?
teachers are the most assuming of any. class subjects change at the speed swallowed gum digests while kids doodle sketches of a masterpiece on thier math homework. thats education today.
the teenage brain is so under estimated and so ill advised, and i am finding it hard to continue cooperating. i think i may just snap
one day i will snap, i will stand up on my desk and say "fuck you and your kids social problems. fuck the new car you got and fuck the fact that your husband hates the dishes. fuck this goddamn textbook and fuck the corrupt news that speaks of a boy stealing a balloon in a theme park while people die in iraq because bob jones has to be a good christian and drive his oil guzzling monster truck to church on sundays and wednesdays.
we are in a prison with teachers that rape our thoughts and hold back our inspirations. how are we to cope?
sunshine and glory days
writing accross the walls of his mind, the soggy cheerios taste the same as the salsberry steak durring his depression. his hair is the jungle of rat nests held together with circus grease and old skin. the butterflys are dead in the emporium. empty cocoons and dead plants are all thats left. beats echo in his head, usually a waltz comes to him in his dreams with lovers, but only when he doesnt perscribe himself with the fixers.
his mind produces a nice trail to walk along, otherwise known as a pain dampener. the leaves blow acrossed it in hues of orange and sad brown. the trees wind the path, branchs looming so low as to say hello, but not close enough shake hands. the door into the cave is open, a place to hide from the nightsnakes and guilting mothers. a place where morals, ethics and selfishness are lost for the sake of the teenager wanting a sip from the cup of sane.
to drunk to sleep, but to tired to think. he lays his head on the table and waits for the axe to come down, the day is such a dream.
his feet are cold and he wants to shower, but he doesn't feel like being clean. the water is stale with plastic and it burns his chapped lips when he tries to refresh. he needs sunshine and the wistle of wind against the car window. the glare on the dashboard and the feel of sun warmth on bare skin.
firelight on smiling dirty drunken faces mixed with the smell of pine needles and cheap tobbaco smoke. wool shirt wearing boys with brown sandaled feet warming next to the fire talk of god and the girls that they haven't met, farther away than the stars above. the bruised ribs from sleeping on the ground and a cold nose from the crisp chill of a beautiful night half slept, half lived.
he takes his head of the table and greets spring with a smile.
his mind produces a nice trail to walk along, otherwise known as a pain dampener. the leaves blow acrossed it in hues of orange and sad brown. the trees wind the path, branchs looming so low as to say hello, but not close enough shake hands. the door into the cave is open, a place to hide from the nightsnakes and guilting mothers. a place where morals, ethics and selfishness are lost for the sake of the teenager wanting a sip from the cup of sane.
to drunk to sleep, but to tired to think. he lays his head on the table and waits for the axe to come down, the day is such a dream.
his feet are cold and he wants to shower, but he doesn't feel like being clean. the water is stale with plastic and it burns his chapped lips when he tries to refresh. he needs sunshine and the wistle of wind against the car window. the glare on the dashboard and the feel of sun warmth on bare skin.
firelight on smiling dirty drunken faces mixed with the smell of pine needles and cheap tobbaco smoke. wool shirt wearing boys with brown sandaled feet warming next to the fire talk of god and the girls that they haven't met, farther away than the stars above. the bruised ribs from sleeping on the ground and a cold nose from the crisp chill of a beautiful night half slept, half lived.
he takes his head of the table and greets spring with a smile.
counting costs
perhaps things are much easier than most think. perhaps when one realizes what they really want out of being, things relax a bit and items fall into place.
if im wrong however, you might end up in the gutter with old newspaper boats and molding leaves.
ahh the collective 'you.' journalists hate it. i just think its preachy, but i use it anyway.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)