REPORT A PROBLEM
Giving light to the unaware"
Where is God? Sometimes I begin to doubt what I've always taken for granted, and I start searching. I search for signs. Nothing major, nothing spectacular. I don't expect the clouds to open and the angels to sing. When you look for them, the signs are there. I guess the cynical people of the world would say I see what I want to see, that the dew on the grass isn't a sign from God, but just water. I disagree. If the Book fell down and nothing pushed it, what made it fall? He did.
The young man was biking on one side of the road, and the old man on the other. Each rode seemingly oblivious to the other, pedaling smoothly, looking straight ahead. The young man wore all black, his pierced eyebrow making him look older than he was. He didn't bother to peer in the shop windows as he passed them.The old man had carefully combed his grey hair, and wore faded blue jeans with his T-shirt. He stared at the green trees as he rode by them, savoring their coolness. Young and old: parallel and equal, riding towards the same destination.
Why does it seem that humans must feel that they are better than something else in order to have a purpose? We've placed ourselves at the top of the food chain, but it isn't enough to be "above" the animals and the plants. No no, we feel the need to make divisions amongst ourselves, to torture other human beings in unspeakable ways. Watching a genecide movie today in class I was sickened and was driven almost to tears by the footage shown. Why do we do this? I'm not optimistic or naïve enough to think it won't happen again.
I want to walk barefoot on the soft earth, tiny flowers among my toes. Give me spring with sunshine and soft winds. Rain shall dance around me as I lift my face to the heavens. Give me spring with raindrops making dew among the tall blades of grass. Robins and swallows will dive and soar among the clouds. Give me spring with the birds conversing in the sky. Loneliness will disappear and hearts will stop aching. Give me spring with laughter among friends. Moments will cease to be just moments and seconds will be eternal snapshots of memory.Give me spring…
Once upon a time there was a little billy goat named George. George went into the mountains, to eat some grass, and ran into Bob the mountain lion. "Hey there Bob" said George cordially. "Yo George, what's up" replied Bob. "Just going to eat some grass", George said cautiously. He was well aware that if Bob was hungry enough, friendship or no friendship, Bob would eat him. "Ya? I just had lunch", replied Bob. Secretly relieved by this information, George waved goodbye to Bob and walked away, only to be attacked and killed by Bob.
Apparently Bob hadn't had dessert.
I step out of the shower and go into my room, only to be confronted with a spider on my wall. It stops crawling. Since I am dressed only in a towel, I can't set it free in the wilderness. I decide that I must kill it. But I can't do it. I keep trying but stopping halfway. When I finally get my nerve up and strike, it jumps OFF the wall, lets a web loose, and slips down behind my dresser. I'm already late; I put on my clothes, and run out. It's still in there, waiting for me…
Spider update: Upon relaying the scary and traumatizing spider experience to my parents, I was informed that spiders just LOVE messy rooms. While this is most likely a lie my parents formulated in order for me to clean up my room for once, I couldn't take the risk of calling their bluff. I cleaned and dusted my room thoroughly, keeping an eye out for the spider (who is still missing). I sprayed the entire place with bug spray. I slept in the guest room, I had nightmares of mutant spiders coming for revenge. Who else is this paranoid? I'm pathetic.
A tremendous wind swept down and caused the little sparrow to fly higher than he had ever been. High above the trees, staring down below, he was at once frightened and excited by the view down below. He soared above robins' nests full of eggs beginning to hatch. He flew past silly humans who did not bother to look up and see the little sparrow narrowly miss their heads. He felt like an eagle, indestructible and respected by those below him. If only he did not need the wind to fly so high. If only being a sparrow was enough.
It is easy to be manipulative when you have such an easy target. Smooth tongue, soft words, low tone of voice. Look at her with your head half-cocked, say the things she wants to hear. Is she lonely? Tell her she'll never be alone again. Is she sad? Tell her happiness lies in your hands. Is she broken? Promise that it will all be fixed in the morning. Smile slowly, look into her eyes. It doesn't matter if she means two cents to you. She's good practice, isn't she? It's not your fault if she takes it all to heart.
I wonder, where does dust go? What if they are tiny little planets with their own life forms..floating thru the air the way we are floating through the solar system. It may seem that they are floating aimlessly, with no final destination..but really, we are the same way, with no particular place to go. We orbit around and around, hoping that this time will be different. Our planet goes in circles. Our lives go in circles. And so perhaps we should not scorn dust, because ultimately, our lives are just as aimless as the dust particles floating through the air.
There is a little cluster of pine trees at the back entrance of the field where I walk into the field. Their new bristles have grown out and stand upright on the branches. Yesterday I walked by and thought, how pretty it all looks. The bristles stand upright in threes, with the middle one taller than the other two. They look like natural little candlesticks on the branches of the trees. Perhaps, I thought, it was nature's way of creating Christmas in June.
Today I walked by the same trees. I felt like they were all giving me the finger.
The ring of fire encircled them both, the flames leaping closer and closer to their sweating bodies. They inched closer to each other and grasped hands, hoping that in touching each other they would come up with a way out. Their hands were rough from fighting and from work. The smoke began to choke their lungs. Coughing and gasping for air, each looked into the other's eyes and saw their own terror reflected there. Why hadn't they listened to the old fortune teller? Why did they dismiss her warnings as hocus pocus? Their unjust prejudices led to their own demise.
As I exited the stadium, I heard the drums. Boom boom boom, the beat got under my skin and into my bones. I found its source in the centre of a crowd of pedestrians. The percussionists stood in a group, each playing their own instrument, the separate sounds merging into one spell-casting song. We stood enchanted. When the beat finally ended, there was a hush. Then, suddenly, out of the silence, a woman yelled out "Thanks for playing your instruments and not Squeegee-ing our cars!"
Her stereotypical, ignorant comment broke the spell and cheapened it all at once. Thanks, lady.
"From the time I walked in"
You are beautiful, unreal, an illusion; how could you be alone when your hair is so black, your eyes are so deep, your skin like a flower petal shining in the rain?
"To the point where we're both arguing"
You are evil, manipulative, disgusting; why would I want to be with anyone like you when its so obvious that you're so stupid and ugly?
"This is how I live"
If you don't forgive me I will kill myself...
"This is where I start screaming"
IF YOU DON'T FORGIVE ME I WILL CRASH THIS CAR...
It is all nearly coming to an end. Soon we shall go down our separate roads, our separate paths of life. Where shall they take us? Where will we go? It seems uncertain, yet we all look forward with high dreams and large goals, believing we can go the distance. Will we ever see each other again? Maybe. Maybe not. Do we even care? Let's face it, half the reason we are even friends with each other is because we have been thrust into the same environment. In a few years, will we wonder about each other? I doubt it.
I hate supermarkets. The hussle and bustle. The constant manoevering of shopping carts down those tight aisles. I always have to go down 5 or 6 aisles just to find what I want. Everything in supermarkets is fake. Fake lighting. Fake meat. (It's soy, it just TASTES like meat!) Fake smiles, even when you want to scream "MOVE!" to the people walking at a snail's pace in front of you. Fake music – you think it's there for your enjoyment, but actually experts have selected it to maximize the amount of products you buy. Even the "fresh" vegetables cast an eerie glow.
She was young and naïve when they met. His eyes were a deep brown and filled with love, she thought. She didn't notice that his deep brown eyes were usually focused more on her breasts than her face. His words were honey tipped lies, but she took them at face value and dreamt of his lips. She was happy simply listening to him go on about himself, as long as he concluded with a compliment thrown her way. When he drove her up to the cabin, she had romance on her mind. Unfortunately, romance wasn't a part of his plan.
Color. Orange Yellow Red Pink, bright at the sun's rays. Beautiful and blinding. Cool green and deep blue, calm as the ocean waves..white as the foam when the waves crash against the rocks near the shore. The tide comes in then goes out again and I wonder if any of it matters. If I matter. What the heck am I doing in this world? In the end my grades, my hopes, my dreams, will all be swallowed up in the ever changing waters of this planet. In the end I am less significant than a grain of sand on shore.
The moon eclipsed the sun and the world fell into darkness. Engulfed in the shadow they themselves had spent centuries creating, the people were forced to face their terrible habits, their destructive waves. They opened their mouths to scream the truth, but the noise died in their mouths, the horrible stillness remaining undisturbed. They stared at the sky searching for hope, for faith, but none came. At last they were all in the deep shadow, and as they slowly realized it, they became afraid. What could they do but surrender? They lay and waited for judgement to fall.
The bus passengers sat silently in the heat. They shifted in their sweaty seats. A baby gurgled and cooed near in its stroller. An old man entered the bus carrying a dark box with a tight lid. He sat near the baby. The old man looked at the baby. The baby smiled and cooed, kicking its tiny feet and laughing. The old man stared back at the baby. He did not see the humor in the hot bus. He leaned towards the baby, staring into its eyes. The baby reached for the old man's box. The box swallowed the baby.
Lift me from my drunken slumber. Take my hand and guide me down the mountain into the caves beneath the Earth. Run my hand along the walls of the cave, the walls lined smooth with gold. Show me the silver dripping from above; liquid silver, looking like stars melting underground. The fireflies will guide our way through the mystery. As we walk, as you show me without words, do not ask me my name, or tell me yours. Let us be strangers in the night, savoring the cool smell of the planet hidden from the world. Let us be free.
Is it really acceptable to breast feed a baby in a subway? As I sat today waiting for the subway to reach my stop, I noticed a woman trying to breast feed as the subway sped along. Granted, she had placed a blanket over the baby's head (thus covering her breast) as she tried to feed her child. It is not a question of indecent exposure, but rather the child's health and safety that I am questioning. The amount of germs in the subway is enough to make a grown person sick… gotta be ten times worse for a baby.
Butterflies. I envy their freedom, lightness and detachment. Butterflies are their own masters, and their beauty is unsurpassed by any other insect. Yet, though they stand alone, they are not lonely. They make friends with the flowers, with the sunshine, with the colors in the sky. They seek love with a grace and dignity that cannot be seen anywhere else. They represent death in some cultures, life in others, and life AFTER death in still others. In either case, they are the bringers of hope and faith to the believer.
O Butterfly believer, do you worship with a rose sacrifice?
The words hang in the air after they are spoken. My father's eyes look into my mother's face, asking for her to take back the message she delivers in such a soft voice. She bites her lip; apologizes, over and over, for having to tell him this news. The room is still until my father's anguished sobs burst into the air. My sister and mother cry silently with him. I sit at his feet, letting his pain wash over me, taking his burden into my heart to hold as my own. Who knew that death could travel through the phone.
I stand in the hot sun waiting for the bus when, out of the corner of my eye, I see a girl walking towards me. As she nears where I am standing, I look up and realize that what I mistook for beads of sweat on her face are actually tears. She is crying, her face full of pain, and as her eyes meet mine I can feel my chest tighten. I wish to reach out and ease her suffering…
The moment passes. She walks by, and I stand there wishing that I had done more than stare.
The gods are laughing down at us because we believe ourselves to be gods. We create and destroy with ease, believing ourselves to be in charge, in control. The top of the food chain, the ultimate being. So ultimate that we kill for sport, and let killers walk free. Pamper those who commit horrific crimes. Let paper currency that we OURSELVES have created take over our lives. How can any of this really be important? The triviality of life disgusts me. We work hard to create machines that will eventually help catalyze our demise. We've spent centuries working towards death.
I keep hearing things in my basement. I let my imagination run away with me and think of aliens living in my washing machine, trying to contact their home planet. A few weeks ago I heard that they had located another solar system similair to ours. Which means that there might be a planet just like ours, billions of light years away. Are they more intelligent? Or is it a parallel universe there, where good is bad and bad is good? I always found the idea of "a bizarro world" interesting.
Sometimes I wonder if, somewhere out there, Superman lives.
Why can't I write? I'm blocked for inspiration, and yet I feel inspired. I know what I want to write of, to express, but it seems that words can't do it justice, and everything comes out sounding cheesy. This has entered a place I have never been before. I'm not sure if I am ready, I'm not sure where this will lead. I'm scared and yet I am calm. My mind is filled with contradictions, heck, I'm a walking contradiction. Sometimes I lie awake and worry; sometimes I sleep peacefully remembering the sound of your breathing in my ear.
They pretend to understand.
They have no choice. They are from different parts of the globe, thrust together into this country, this land of free health care and senior's benefits, of cold winters and summers so humid that your arthritis acts up in the middle of the night. They live here now, and cannot go back to the lands of their youth. Sitting together, they play bingo, and smile and laugh and try to understand each other's broken English. Learning how to communicate through hand gestures, they become friends over an offering of tea. Companionship comes at different levels.
Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page Blank page Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page. Blank page…
The Tip Jar