Sunday, October 26, 2008
Philippians 3
I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Ode to Mom (Beauties, Seasonally)
On February 24th, 1988, she told me I was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. She was hurting and tired, but she's drop-dead gorgeous - the way a girl is unaware of some tuft of hair that kicks off the top of her ear, making men go crazy.
You plastered my face with anointing oil and summoned the wind to blow gently on my window.
You plastered my face with anointing oil and summoned the wind to blow gently on my window.
You Know What I'm Gonna Tell You
How much do i have to explain
when the universal generalization
explains even that which i cannot grasp
for i have only experienced my experience.
when the universal generalization
explains even that which i cannot grasp
for i have only experienced my experience.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Talk or Scream, Just Let Us Know
The entropy of an object depicts just how much chaos that object contains.
The English teacher shares his frustrated eyes with the class and moves his insides closer to disorder. Within a 50 minute class, he has a good enough time staring each student down to give them at least 5 minutes of how much he hates that person for not talking. He'll say, "Class, you could maybe try reading tonight and taking some notes - maybe jotting down stuff you found interesting that you'd like to share with us next class period. Just don't make me do all the talking!" Sure he's the teacher, but the class is mobile only with dialogue and interaction. He keeps looking at me and I'd love to say how much Crying of Lot 49 makes me....and then I'll scream in class because that's how it makes me feel. And some girl will turn around and look at me as if I'm a frog that just got run over by a car. My skin crawls. I keep feeling like the lights are flickering because my brain won't stop and no one in this room will talk.
The English teacher shares his frustrated eyes with the class and moves his insides closer to disorder. Within a 50 minute class, he has a good enough time staring each student down to give them at least 5 minutes of how much he hates that person for not talking. He'll say, "Class, you could maybe try reading tonight and taking some notes - maybe jotting down stuff you found interesting that you'd like to share with us next class period. Just don't make me do all the talking!" Sure he's the teacher, but the class is mobile only with dialogue and interaction. He keeps looking at me and I'd love to say how much Crying of Lot 49 makes me....and then I'll scream in class because that's how it makes me feel. And some girl will turn around and look at me as if I'm a frog that just got run over by a car. My skin crawls. I keep feeling like the lights are flickering because my brain won't stop and no one in this room will talk.
Monday, October 13, 2008
CHAPTER 1: Fab
---September 9, 1979---
---Apex, NC---
I'll feel dumb when the Freshman calculates Pi faster than me. You don't have to eat all the corn that Babs, the cafeteria lady, will smash on your plate. You'll be a fat mathematician that my suite mates will make fun of. I think of the sun maybe making its way over California and how it might just get here in 3.14 hours as I blow smoke rings out my 9th story bedroom window. I live in the tallest building on Apex's campus. I've been at Apex Academy now for 3 weeks. I just don't feel like a junior in high school, what with going to a boarding school where you live at your school and all.
I try and pull up my window but it's painted shut and paint chips are falling like snow. There are 8 pairs of people below me that might sneeze, if they were to stick their heads out the window. Suckers, at least enjoy the snow I'm providing for you.
My family and I would take trips all the time to come up here, since Apex is right on the coast. When it snows, it floods the spaces in between dorms because there is no outlet for the snow to spread itself out into. My roommate, Fab, and I sometimes go to our friends' dorm on the 3rd floor and jump out his window into the snowy, pillowy mess.
Fab and I would come up here sometimes in the winter and just go lay out on the beach. There's this mournful tone that seems to permeate the atmosphere surrounding you when you walk out onto a beach and can only see the person right in front of you. The air is just really hazy because the layer of water droplets in the air near the ocean seem almost crystallized and seem to linger so motionless that everything is just really quiet and foggy.
It gets so quiet that any noise that might penetrate the crystallized air will hurt to hear, even the crunch of the snowy sand under your foot is as audible as a gun shot anywhere else. When Fab and I would come to the beach, he would always bring this instrument called a Sarangi, which is this bowed string instrument that's really popular in his culture. When he'd play it, it was probably all you could here anywhere a mile from it.
Fab is a hippie Indian. His real name is Founji Ubekhi, but somewhere along the way of him being in America for the past 4 years, someone decided to change that.
My home is only an hour drive from here in Johnson City and I feel like I can see it from this window. Any flashing light on the interstate very well could just be my dad shining a flashlight in the backyard, looking for his pot stash.
Right now, Fab's sitting in front of the tube like the dog in 100 Dalmations that sits with his nose basically touching the t.v.
"Fab, it'd be better to not eat McDonald's for breakfast, ya know. You'd probably be better off eating some of that Bengali cuisine so you'd feel better at times like this."
Fab looks at me like I'm the champion of idiots and says, "Dude, I'm only Indian because my parents are."
"Well, you also lived in India for 12 years."
Fab says, "Well yea, but I am a McDonald's fiend now. Plus, it's 4 in the morning. What I ate a day ago shouldn't be fucking with me now."
I'd like to point out how much Fab nonchalantly cusses.
Fab decides to pull out his Micky Dee's leftovers. Bad idea.
He tosses them out the window, seemingly an attempt at saying, "Suck it, McDonald's." Great Idea.
One of our suitemates, Mo, comes in and asks, "Ya'll wanna watch Animal House right now? It just came out on VHS!"
I look at Mo and say, "Dude, really, it's 4 in the morning. Let's go take a nap on the beach."
Fab looks at me and says, "Right on. Let's go build a bonfire."
I'm glad I room with Fab. Sometimes, if someone wants to pop in a movie, I feel like I should be a party-pooper. I'm so antsy sometimes. Do you ever smoke a cigarette and feel like you can't stop your hands from shaking? It might be because you're getting a buzz. Funny, I typically smoke to calm down my nerves but it typically just makes me even more nervous.
Monday, October 6, 2008
CHAPTER X: Introduction
Right now, I'm doing quite a bit of editing on my written chapters. I didn't like the idea of everything Julian Fidelt is saying as being a conversation. I especially didn't like it being a conversation to a psychologist he hardly even knows.
So, like I said, I've been editing a lot lately. I can be picky sometimes and will take out ideas or character developments and trash them completely all together. I need to learn to not be so ambitious/pretentious at times.
I plan on making movies for each chapter that will have pictures and music correlative to what's written beneath it. You'll see what I mean once I post it. What I've written lately has just been very inspired and needs the movie/music to go along with it.
Sounds ambitious, I know, but we'll see how it pans out.
So, like I said, I've been editing a lot lately. I can be picky sometimes and will take out ideas or character developments and trash them completely all together. I need to learn to not be so ambitious/pretentious at times.
I plan on making movies for each chapter that will have pictures and music correlative to what's written beneath it. You'll see what I mean once I post it. What I've written lately has just been very inspired and needs the movie/music to go along with it.
Sounds ambitious, I know, but we'll see how it pans out.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
A Scene from the Psychiatrist Office
----------
I'll try and commit suicide and I'll fail. Then, some one in my family will set up this set of psychiatrist appointments.
The water jug will gulp it's water back in and blow air bubbles inside of itself the whole time the doctor's sitting there staring at me.
I'll get bored with her mundanity and say, "If you're dying to know exactly what went wrong, I'll tell you, but with a certain pain-staking knifing of my soul."
I always try to be as dramatic as possible when the therapist or psychiatrist is sitting there, staring at me with a twitchy eye, as if they are so concentrated on every word I say. They probably have to listen hard, I mean they've got to have the right questions to ask, ya know? Still though, I like to mess with them. They'll always backtrack and say, "So, you said that you went up to your room and took (insert drug here) and it caused you to _____ in the toilet and when your parents found out, they weren't exactly happy." And just to mess with them, I'll always try and trick them into thinking, "Well, actually my parents were pretty happy with the whole thing, I mean they loved how it went down." And to that, Dr. whoever will say, "Well, isn't that why you're here in the first place? Your parents forced you here."
I don't like it when the doctor gets too personal. Of course, they always do. It's their job.
----------
She sits there waiting for me to say, "Well, of course they forced me here."
I can't help but notice the vein in her neck.
"Doc, do you ever feel like you're asking me all these questions because you're trying to figure something out for yourself? Why did your husband leave you? Do you think that maybe the woman he is sleeping with is better in bed because she doesn't embarrass a sophomore in high school 3 times a week. You always stare at the butter knife on the table. Who's gonna butter their biscuits when they're being asked what they did once their vein collapsed? I think, ya know, maybe you don't want to butter your biscuits either! I think, ya know, maybe your eyeballing your arm because you're trying to think, "How'd he really do this? Did he seriously sit there picking the vein to slice?" Say maybe you're really asking me all these questions because you really want to know the best way to do it so that yours isn't just an attempt."
I'll try and commit suicide and I'll fail. Then, some one in my family will set up this set of psychiatrist appointments.
The water jug will gulp it's water back in and blow air bubbles inside of itself the whole time the doctor's sitting there staring at me.
I'll get bored with her mundanity and say, "If you're dying to know exactly what went wrong, I'll tell you, but with a certain pain-staking knifing of my soul."
I always try to be as dramatic as possible when the therapist or psychiatrist is sitting there, staring at me with a twitchy eye, as if they are so concentrated on every word I say. They probably have to listen hard, I mean they've got to have the right questions to ask, ya know? Still though, I like to mess with them. They'll always backtrack and say, "So, you said that you went up to your room and took (insert drug here) and it caused you to _____ in the toilet and when your parents found out, they weren't exactly happy." And just to mess with them, I'll always try and trick them into thinking, "Well, actually my parents were pretty happy with the whole thing, I mean they loved how it went down." And to that, Dr. whoever will say, "Well, isn't that why you're here in the first place? Your parents forced you here."
I don't like it when the doctor gets too personal. Of course, they always do. It's their job.
----------
She sits there waiting for me to say, "Well, of course they forced me here."
I can't help but notice the vein in her neck.
"Doc, do you ever feel like you're asking me all these questions because you're trying to figure something out for yourself? Why did your husband leave you? Do you think that maybe the woman he is sleeping with is better in bed because she doesn't embarrass a sophomore in high school 3 times a week. You always stare at the butter knife on the table. Who's gonna butter their biscuits when they're being asked what they did once their vein collapsed? I think, ya know, maybe you don't want to butter your biscuits either! I think, ya know, maybe your eyeballing your arm because you're trying to think, "How'd he really do this? Did he seriously sit there picking the vein to slice?" Say maybe you're really asking me all these questions because you really want to know the best way to do it so that yours isn't just an attempt."
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