This guy's website is hilarious. Show him some love and buy the guy a beer.
http://www.horriblelogos.com/
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Horrible Logos
This guy's website is hilarious. Show him some love and buy the guy a beer.
http://www.horriblelogos.com/
Monday, March 22, 2010
A Good Day
A Good Day
Malcolm was frustrated. As he walked around his bedroom, he couldn’t help but think of how his mother would scold him should she see the mess he had made. His bed was a wreck, there were clothes strewn across the floor, there was something sticky on the tile by his bedside table, and to top it all off, he had a pile of dirty laundry that was almost waist high. It was time to clean his room.
Malcolm always felt as though he worked better while listening to music so he went to his mother’s record player and found an old ragtime album. He smiled. The gentle hiss of static that issued from the ancient speakers as the needle made contact with the vinyl always made his shoulders tense in anticipation for music and fun. The jaunty bass line that soon erupted from the speakers sent Malcolm into full speed. Nothing made clean-up go quite as fast as Scott Joplin.
He danced about his room without reservation or inhibition. When his music played, not even his mother could make him feel sad. Malcolm loved music. He loved the way in which the notes seemed to bounce off of the walls in chaotic arcs and swirl around him in irreverent patterns. He loved the sensation he felt in his toes when a fast song played that seemed to set his stride in beat with a-one-and-two-and-one-and-two-and just-like-that he spun in place to face his mother.
The music stopped in an instant. The look of his mother’s stern face was like noise disappearing into a vacuum. He couldn’t even hear what she was saying from the ringing in his ears, but it didn’t matter. He already knew what she would say. He was anxious to leave the house to see his friends later that day, but she would never let him leave until he had finished all his chores. Aside from his room—which, thankfully, was far cleaner now and simply appeared unkempt rather than a disaster—he still needed to scrub the kitchen floors, straighten up the living room, clean out her car like he had promised her and would he please turn the damn music off?
The carefree rag seemed out of place now anyway. With a noticeable sulk in his step, Malcolm turned the music off and made his way to the kitchen to fill the bucket with hot water and soap. It wasn’t his fault that the house was such a mess. It was her fault really, he thought. She was one who had spilled everywhere last night and was unable to clean up after herself. Malcolm watched as the faucet made a tunnel through the rising mound of soap, the cascade of water resembling a sort of watery trunk sticking out from a hill of bubbles. His mother would disapprove of him wasting time by staring at a mop bucket if she could see him. Surely she would have found something else for him to do while the bucket filled.
Malcolm hated mopping. He loved cleanliness and order and rules, but the actual act of mopping always made him annoyed. He looked down at his hands and frowned at the blisters forming on his small fingers. His mother never said he had to actually use the mop, after all. He squeezed the remaining water out of the yarn-head and placed it back in the closet. With a flourish, he whipped a dry rag out of the drawer and got down on his hands and knees. The sticky red mess had dried to the kitchen floor, and Malcolm could almost make out his own reflection in it. Only after copious amounts of cleaning product and elbow grease did the stain finally disappear.
The floor sparkled with a sheen oblivious to whatever previous sins had once invaded its linoleum tiles. In a flash, he had the living room put back in its place: magazines in neat piles on the coffee table, pillows properly fluffed and stacked, and the remote control within arm’s reach from the couch. Malcolm smiled at his now clean surroundings. This was satisfaction after a job well done.
Malcolm saved the laundry for last, of course. Few things in life gave him the same joy as watching clothes spin around and around causing his eyes to go all dizzy inside his head. He walked around his tiny bedroom, throwing clothes into his laundry basket one at a time. A sock, a shirt, a pair of pants, another sock, a pair of underwear, two more socks, a bath towel—he paused. A small, white, crew-cut sock with a pink stripe stitched around the ankle had burrowed its way beneath the gap between his bedside table and the floor.
Malcolm sat down. He leaned back against his bed, took the sock in his hands, and held it tenderly; it was Madeline’s sock. She must have left it behind the night before. He closed his eyes and smiled. Madeline was, as far as he could tell, perfect. He loved the way her dimples would hide until she smiled, sending her cheeks into deep pools on the corners of her lips. When she smiled, it made Malcolm’s heart pound within his chest. His first date with Maddy (as only her friends were allowed to call her that) was almost a year ago.
* * *
They met at the local coffee shop just after sunset. She was a practical girl, simple and easy to please: she ordered a large iced coffee and sweetened it with one package of artificial sweetener and just a dash of skim milk. He was certain that had they not had skim milk she would have just as soon used half and half or even cream, and had they been out of everything, she would have just added another packet of sugar. That was one of the first things he noticed about Maddy; she was particular in her tastes and preferences, but willing to adapt to fit the situation. She was stress free in her life, and as a result made everything and everyone around her equally free of stress.
Malcolm had been nervous. He was anxious about making the right impression and ordered a latte only to get mad at the barista for putting too much foam. He was grateful that she had already taken her seat and didn’t notice his little outburst. He didn’t want anything to go wrong. He was a good judge of character and already felt as though there was something special about her. Malcolm took his seat across from her so they could be face to face, but had immediately found himself at a loss for words.
He thought about how to begin a conversation with her. Should he bring up politics? Certainly not, much too volatile a topic. Religion was touchy. Sports was out his element as he didn’t follow a team and would only catch scores in passing or by chance. Just as he came up with a perfect conversation starter, he looked over to notice a slam poet who had just taken the small stage inside the Coffee Cartel and was testing the levels on his microphone. The poetry would make it difficult to talk.
Now that he thought about it, they hardly even got to know one another on that first date. Theirs was a relationship borne of natural chemistry. She had made eye contact frequently that night, and always averted her eyes by immediately glancing at her coffee, or the poet. Malcolm found her shyness to be incredibly endearing.
It wasn’t until their subsequent dates that he began to learn about her as a person. Maddy had ambition; so many dreams stacked upon each other that sometimes it became difficult to separate one from the next. She was studying at the local university to become a veterinarian, but she also had a passion for philanthropies and social work. She was involved in all sorts of causes and organizations—from cancer walks and fund-raisers to volunteering at the homeless shelter—and yet she still found time for her schoolwork and friends.
She wanted to travel, of course, but not in the way that most girls her age want to travel. Posters covered the walls of her bedroom depicting landscapes of far-off countries: beaches in the South Pacific, architecture in the Czech Republic, rainforests in South America, and even the endless plains of the Serengeti. He liked that her passion for travel extended past the typical, alcoholic, collegiate destinations that hardly varied from each other in terms other than locale. She often talked about joining the Peace Corps but Malcolm was adamantly opposed to the idea.
He imagined that she found him needy at times. Here she was giving up her time to help those less fortunate and all Malcolm could think about was spending his time on her. He rationalized that with her constantly caring for other people there needed to be someone taking care of her to fulfill some sort of cosmic balance.
* * *
Malcolm stood up. The walls of his room were covered in pictures of Maddy; there were pictures of her at school, helping out at the shelter, and even some more risqué photos that he treasured above the rest. He was certain that they were in love. As he fingered the stitching on her sock, he closed his eyes and thought about the gentle arc of her small feet. Her toes were short and plump, the maroon nail polish a provocative contrast to her milky white skin. He imagined running his finger past her skinny ankle, and up her slender legs. Her calves would tense as he traced his index in lazy circles before grabbing onto her smooth, shaved thighs. He was always aroused by the sight of her cleanly shaven legs, thinking about her shaving each leg in the shower, wanting to be smooth and presentable just for him. He crawled on top of his dirty sheets and pulled his pants down to his knees. He ignored the stains on the sheets and began to touch himself.
Maddy’s naked legs ended in a perfectly round bottom. He would take the palm of his hand and trace the length of her leg from behind her knee to the small of her back, taking extra time to caress every inch along the way. She had two dimples at the base of her back, to match the ones in her smile. Malcolm liked to think of Maddy’s dimples as sort of magnetic poles of her beauty. Just as he was finishing, Malcolm looked up to discover his mother’s lifeless eyes staring at him from within her mahogany framed tomb. He froze. A deep sense of shame washed over Malcolm has he lay there on his bed, half naked and holding a girl’s sock to his nostrils. It was only a portrait of his mother he had to remind himself. It wasn’t actually her. Malcolm cautiously stood up and resumed cleaning his room.
He had been with Maddy for nearly a year, and yet last night was the first time they had sex. It was funny, really, the more he thought about it. For a year, he had learned the most intimate details of her life. He knew Maddy’s dreams, her goals, even her fears. He had seen her naked, of course, but they had never gotten to the point they were at last night. After they made love, Malcolm bared his soul to her, allowing her to know him deeper and truer than anyone before. He begged her to empty out her soul to him, but she only lay there on the bed in silence: naked and exposed and yet somehow more covered and veiled than ever.
Last night didn’t go nearly as he had planned. What he had hoped would be a magical and life-affirming night turned into something less than pleasant. Maddy was upset with him, that much was evident. He couldn’t understand it, really. He did so much for her, tried so hard to make her happy. It was only natural that he should expect her to treat him the same way. It had become clear some time ago that Maddy would never feel the same way about Malcolm as he felt about her, and this pained him deeply. Malcolm knew that he wasn’t strong enough to break things off with her, and felt as though he were doomed to be stuck in her grasp until she grew bored with him.
* * *
The afternoon sun cast an awful glare about his front yard. He shielded his eyes from the sharp refraction in the windshield as unwanted prisms of light bounced across his face. He threw his sack of laundry into the backseat and started the car. The seats were unbearably hot. He opened the garage and repositioned his car so he could back into it. As the mechanical door whirred and clanked its way shut, Malcolm hurried to the light switch to avoid being caught in the dark.
Malcolm was somewhat unnerved by the silence that followed the garage door’s defiant shudder as the motor ceased running. The garage was impeccable. The wall above his worktable was lined with little drawers, all plainly labeled, that housed various screws and bits of useful gadgetry. Everything had its place—everything had a home. A missing tool would become immediately noticeable, its outline resembling a sort of crime-scene body outline in the midst of power drivers and wrenches neatly in their place. His hammer was missing.
Malcolm was tired. He had spent most of his day cleaning the house and yet still had his meeting to attend in a few hours. He didn’t have time to search through his house for a misplaced hammer. It was probably still in the kitchen. He turned to his worktable and tilted his head in thought. He supposed that he had done about all that he could and reasoned that he had taken every precaution. With a self-assuring nod, he opened his trunk and pushed aside an old flashlight and a few other miscellaneous items that had ended up inside. He turned back to his worktable and surveyed the bundle that lay atop.
Malcolm was surprised by the weight of Madeline’s limp body. She couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and twenty pounds, especially after all the blood she had lost. With a grunt, he transferred her sheet-wrapped corpse into his plastic-lined trunk. He had lined the trunk almost a week ago in preparation.
As Malcolm drove away to find a place to dump Madeline, he reassured himself that he had done the right thing. He had wasted a year of his life on this girl, hadn’t he? A year spent memorizing facts and details, studying her life, learning her most intimate details. A year spent following Madeline to all of her classes, sitting in on lectures she attended, making notes of who her friends were; a year spent memorizing her daily routine.
It wasn’t his fault she had never noticed him. It was hers. From that first date at the coffee shop. Malcolm had purposely chosen a seat in her field of vision not three tables away from her. He stared at her. He studied her that entire night. He watched as she added the skim milk to her coffee and became furious when she smiled at the idiot barista with the faux hawk and shell necklace. Malcolm made sure to berate the moron when he screwed up his latte.
She looked up at him at least—he wasn’t even sure how many times—but she had looked at him. He thought of smiling a few of those times, but he was nervous. Surely she would have noticed that. And yet, she hadn’t. For all the effort that Malcolm had put into loving Madeline, she was unaware of his existence. Well, she was anyway, until he took her home with him last night. He tied her down and made love to her, and she cried. She didn’t fight him, she didn’t scream out, she just cried. Even after he told her how much he loved her, told her how much he knew about her, how perfect they would be together, Madeline just laid there and cried. He supposed this was partially why he killed her.
Malcolm pulled into an alley way lined with dumpsters. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching, but then thought better of it. He felt he at least owed Madeline a final resting place a little more scenic than a dumpster. Whenever she had moved out of his line of sight at night, he would stare at other parts of her room through his binoculars. He knew that Madeline liked the beach.
It was almost sunset by the time Malcolm got to the cliffs above Portuguese Bend. There was only light traffic on the coastal highway behind him as he pulled his small car off the road and got as near the cliff as he could stand. He heaved Madeline out of his trunk and carried her to the edge. Like everyone else in his life that he had loved, Madeline was dead. He would recover. He would move on from her death much like he was able to move on when his cat died, or when only cousin got in that accident, or even when his mother died of a sudden heart attack. At least this death was planned. There was not that sudden shock upon hearing news that someone you know has left this earth. Malcolm was grateful for that.
He tossed her body unceremoniously from the edge and turned away, not bothering to watch her descend without a hint of grace, her naked body untangling from the sheets and landing in a heap of skin and bone on the jagged rocks below. Malcolm had no need to see her like this. He had his memories and that was fine with him.
By the time he got to his Laundromat, it was already seven o’clock. He stuffed the blood stained sheets and his mixed assortment of whites into the washer with a glass door. Malcolm loved to watch the clothes spin and knew that today would feel especially therapeutic. He added bleach to his wash and a smile spread across his face. He loved the acidic sting he got in the back of his throat when he opened his bottle of Clorox. Bleach was really a remarkable chemical. Malcolm didn’t quite understand, but was nevertheless fascinated by, the means in which the bleach literally broke down the chemical bonds that made up the chromophores. Bleach could chemically alter the material to be devoid of color, to be free of blemishes or mistakes.
Malcolm stared into the washer machine and saw his red sheets spinning wildly inside. Madeline’s lips were red. A bizarre smile spread across his face as his eyes began to lose focus staring at the inner machinations of the spin cycle. The bleach made quick work of the blood as the swirl sheets and water began the transition to pink. Madeline’s skin was pink. The smile upon his face began to vanish. As the wash neared the end of its cycle, his whites had all reached a monochromatic uniformity. The wash cycle had ended.
Malcolm began the awkward task of shuffling the wet clothes into the dryer, taking every precaution to avoid dropping any clothes onto the ground. He set the dryer to just over an hour and rushed out the door.
* * *
Malcolm was late. About a quarter to nine, the meeting started at half past eight, he strolled in to his support group and quickly apologized to his friends. Dr. Stevens smiled at Malcolm and told him not to worry.
“Malcolm,” he smiled while talking, “our good friend, Malcolm, we are simply glad to see you with us once more. Remember, that the key to leading a stress-free life is to free yourself of projected expectations. None of us begrudge you for being late, so try not to worry. Do not apologize, for I am sure that you had very important things to take care of before you arrived here tonight.”
Malcolm took a breath a looked ready to respond.
“And if was something trivial, then all the better, Malcolm, all the better. This group is in place to serve you, not the other way around. You owe us nothing but your ability to listen and willingness to learn and grow.”
Malcolm settled back into his seat and glanced around the circle of familiar faces. Ever since his mother had died, Malcolm had attended this group every other Wednesday without missing a single meeting. They were his friends. He could tell that they were in the middle of sharing: Dr. Stevens would go around the circle and they would respond in turn, telling him about how the last week had been, about upcoming plans, about anything really. The doctor was there to lead group discussion and to teach them how to get stress out of their daily lives. They had all attended a seminar three years ago and had signed up to enlist the help of Dr. Stevens. His prices were very modest and he only required payment at the second meeting of each month or—
“Malcolm? Do you need a minute?”
Malcolm looked up, startled. It was already his time to share.
“W-what was the question?”
“Tell me about your week, Malcolm.”
Malcolm took a deep breath.
“Okay. Okay. I went to work on time every day, except for last Tuesday when I was four—I was four minutes late. My boss got mad. I told him that—I told him—I said for all the days that I was early it balan—it balance—we were—it was even.”
“Good for you, Malcolm. You need to stand up for yourself. What did your boss say to that?”
“He t-t-… He told me that it was my job if um, uh, uh, I was—if it was late again. He said that this was my final warning, even though he’s never warned me before.”
“Okay. Alright. Everyone, we’ve all had to deal with a difficult employer before, haven’t we?”
There was a collective nod around the room.
“Remember what you’ve learned here, Malcolm. You need to focus on the little things when there are bigger things in your life stressing you out. This was last week. How do you feel today?”
“I did my laundry today,” Malcolm suggested.
“And?”
He smiled. “Today was a good day.”
* * *
Malcolm returned to the Laundromat just as his machine ended its cycle. As he threw his clean laundry into his basket, he tried to remember Dr. Stevens’s advice. As stressful as his day had been, he had to remain focused on the present; he needed to let go of his stress and concentrate on the good things in his life. Like bleached whites. His sheets and socks seemed to glow under the harsh fluorescent lighting; freed from their blemishes and discolorations, they were perfect and new.
Malcolm poked his head inside the dryer to see if he had missed anything. Sure enough, a single crew-cut sock was sticking to the side of the washer, forgotten and almost left behind. Malcolm recognized it immediately as Madeline’s. The pink stripe had been bleached white, but the memory was a vivid as ever.
Malcolm was frustrated. As he walked around his bedroom, he couldn’t help but think of how his mother would scold him should she see the mess he had made. His bed was a wreck, there were clothes strewn across the floor, there was something sticky on the tile by his bedside table, and to top it all off, he had a pile of dirty laundry that was almost waist high. It was time to clean his room.
Malcolm always felt as though he worked better while listening to music so he went to his mother’s record player and found an old ragtime album. He smiled. The gentle hiss of static that issued from the ancient speakers as the needle made contact with the vinyl always made his shoulders tense in anticipation for music and fun. The jaunty bass line that soon erupted from the speakers sent Malcolm into full speed. Nothing made clean-up go quite as fast as Scott Joplin.
He danced about his room without reservation or inhibition. When his music played, not even his mother could make him feel sad. Malcolm loved music. He loved the way in which the notes seemed to bounce off of the walls in chaotic arcs and swirl around him in irreverent patterns. He loved the sensation he felt in his toes when a fast song played that seemed to set his stride in beat with a-one-and-two-and-one-and-two-and just-like-that he spun in place to face his mother.
The music stopped in an instant. The look of his mother’s stern face was like noise disappearing into a vacuum. He couldn’t even hear what she was saying from the ringing in his ears, but it didn’t matter. He already knew what she would say. He was anxious to leave the house to see his friends later that day, but she would never let him leave until he had finished all his chores. Aside from his room—which, thankfully, was far cleaner now and simply appeared unkempt rather than a disaster—he still needed to scrub the kitchen floors, straighten up the living room, clean out her car like he had promised her and would he please turn the damn music off?
The carefree rag seemed out of place now anyway. With a noticeable sulk in his step, Malcolm turned the music off and made his way to the kitchen to fill the bucket with hot water and soap. It wasn’t his fault that the house was such a mess. It was her fault really, he thought. She was one who had spilled everywhere last night and was unable to clean up after herself. Malcolm watched as the faucet made a tunnel through the rising mound of soap, the cascade of water resembling a sort of watery trunk sticking out from a hill of bubbles. His mother would disapprove of him wasting time by staring at a mop bucket if she could see him. Surely she would have found something else for him to do while the bucket filled.
Malcolm hated mopping. He loved cleanliness and order and rules, but the actual act of mopping always made him annoyed. He looked down at his hands and frowned at the blisters forming on his small fingers. His mother never said he had to actually use the mop, after all. He squeezed the remaining water out of the yarn-head and placed it back in the closet. With a flourish, he whipped a dry rag out of the drawer and got down on his hands and knees. The sticky red mess had dried to the kitchen floor, and Malcolm could almost make out his own reflection in it. Only after copious amounts of cleaning product and elbow grease did the stain finally disappear.
The floor sparkled with a sheen oblivious to whatever previous sins had once invaded its linoleum tiles. In a flash, he had the living room put back in its place: magazines in neat piles on the coffee table, pillows properly fluffed and stacked, and the remote control within arm’s reach from the couch. Malcolm smiled at his now clean surroundings. This was satisfaction after a job well done.
Malcolm saved the laundry for last, of course. Few things in life gave him the same joy as watching clothes spin around and around causing his eyes to go all dizzy inside his head. He walked around his tiny bedroom, throwing clothes into his laundry basket one at a time. A sock, a shirt, a pair of pants, another sock, a pair of underwear, two more socks, a bath towel—he paused. A small, white, crew-cut sock with a pink stripe stitched around the ankle had burrowed its way beneath the gap between his bedside table and the floor.
Malcolm sat down. He leaned back against his bed, took the sock in his hands, and held it tenderly; it was Madeline’s sock. She must have left it behind the night before. He closed his eyes and smiled. Madeline was, as far as he could tell, perfect. He loved the way her dimples would hide until she smiled, sending her cheeks into deep pools on the corners of her lips. When she smiled, it made Malcolm’s heart pound within his chest. His first date with Maddy (as only her friends were allowed to call her that) was almost a year ago.
* * *
They met at the local coffee shop just after sunset. She was a practical girl, simple and easy to please: she ordered a large iced coffee and sweetened it with one package of artificial sweetener and just a dash of skim milk. He was certain that had they not had skim milk she would have just as soon used half and half or even cream, and had they been out of everything, she would have just added another packet of sugar. That was one of the first things he noticed about Maddy; she was particular in her tastes and preferences, but willing to adapt to fit the situation. She was stress free in her life, and as a result made everything and everyone around her equally free of stress.
Malcolm had been nervous. He was anxious about making the right impression and ordered a latte only to get mad at the barista for putting too much foam. He was grateful that she had already taken her seat and didn’t notice his little outburst. He didn’t want anything to go wrong. He was a good judge of character and already felt as though there was something special about her. Malcolm took his seat across from her so they could be face to face, but had immediately found himself at a loss for words.
He thought about how to begin a conversation with her. Should he bring up politics? Certainly not, much too volatile a topic. Religion was touchy. Sports was out his element as he didn’t follow a team and would only catch scores in passing or by chance. Just as he came up with a perfect conversation starter, he looked over to notice a slam poet who had just taken the small stage inside the Coffee Cartel and was testing the levels on his microphone. The poetry would make it difficult to talk.
Now that he thought about it, they hardly even got to know one another on that first date. Theirs was a relationship borne of natural chemistry. She had made eye contact frequently that night, and always averted her eyes by immediately glancing at her coffee, or the poet. Malcolm found her shyness to be incredibly endearing.
It wasn’t until their subsequent dates that he began to learn about her as a person. Maddy had ambition; so many dreams stacked upon each other that sometimes it became difficult to separate one from the next. She was studying at the local university to become a veterinarian, but she also had a passion for philanthropies and social work. She was involved in all sorts of causes and organizations—from cancer walks and fund-raisers to volunteering at the homeless shelter—and yet she still found time for her schoolwork and friends.
She wanted to travel, of course, but not in the way that most girls her age want to travel. Posters covered the walls of her bedroom depicting landscapes of far-off countries: beaches in the South Pacific, architecture in the Czech Republic, rainforests in South America, and even the endless plains of the Serengeti. He liked that her passion for travel extended past the typical, alcoholic, collegiate destinations that hardly varied from each other in terms other than locale. She often talked about joining the Peace Corps but Malcolm was adamantly opposed to the idea.
He imagined that she found him needy at times. Here she was giving up her time to help those less fortunate and all Malcolm could think about was spending his time on her. He rationalized that with her constantly caring for other people there needed to be someone taking care of her to fulfill some sort of cosmic balance.
* * *
Malcolm stood up. The walls of his room were covered in pictures of Maddy; there were pictures of her at school, helping out at the shelter, and even some more risqué photos that he treasured above the rest. He was certain that they were in love. As he fingered the stitching on her sock, he closed his eyes and thought about the gentle arc of her small feet. Her toes were short and plump, the maroon nail polish a provocative contrast to her milky white skin. He imagined running his finger past her skinny ankle, and up her slender legs. Her calves would tense as he traced his index in lazy circles before grabbing onto her smooth, shaved thighs. He was always aroused by the sight of her cleanly shaven legs, thinking about her shaving each leg in the shower, wanting to be smooth and presentable just for him. He crawled on top of his dirty sheets and pulled his pants down to his knees. He ignored the stains on the sheets and began to touch himself.
Maddy’s naked legs ended in a perfectly round bottom. He would take the palm of his hand and trace the length of her leg from behind her knee to the small of her back, taking extra time to caress every inch along the way. She had two dimples at the base of her back, to match the ones in her smile. Malcolm liked to think of Maddy’s dimples as sort of magnetic poles of her beauty. Just as he was finishing, Malcolm looked up to discover his mother’s lifeless eyes staring at him from within her mahogany framed tomb. He froze. A deep sense of shame washed over Malcolm has he lay there on his bed, half naked and holding a girl’s sock to his nostrils. It was only a portrait of his mother he had to remind himself. It wasn’t actually her. Malcolm cautiously stood up and resumed cleaning his room.
He had been with Maddy for nearly a year, and yet last night was the first time they had sex. It was funny, really, the more he thought about it. For a year, he had learned the most intimate details of her life. He knew Maddy’s dreams, her goals, even her fears. He had seen her naked, of course, but they had never gotten to the point they were at last night. After they made love, Malcolm bared his soul to her, allowing her to know him deeper and truer than anyone before. He begged her to empty out her soul to him, but she only lay there on the bed in silence: naked and exposed and yet somehow more covered and veiled than ever.
Last night didn’t go nearly as he had planned. What he had hoped would be a magical and life-affirming night turned into something less than pleasant. Maddy was upset with him, that much was evident. He couldn’t understand it, really. He did so much for her, tried so hard to make her happy. It was only natural that he should expect her to treat him the same way. It had become clear some time ago that Maddy would never feel the same way about Malcolm as he felt about her, and this pained him deeply. Malcolm knew that he wasn’t strong enough to break things off with her, and felt as though he were doomed to be stuck in her grasp until she grew bored with him.
* * *
The afternoon sun cast an awful glare about his front yard. He shielded his eyes from the sharp refraction in the windshield as unwanted prisms of light bounced across his face. He threw his sack of laundry into the backseat and started the car. The seats were unbearably hot. He opened the garage and repositioned his car so he could back into it. As the mechanical door whirred and clanked its way shut, Malcolm hurried to the light switch to avoid being caught in the dark.
Malcolm was somewhat unnerved by the silence that followed the garage door’s defiant shudder as the motor ceased running. The garage was impeccable. The wall above his worktable was lined with little drawers, all plainly labeled, that housed various screws and bits of useful gadgetry. Everything had its place—everything had a home. A missing tool would become immediately noticeable, its outline resembling a sort of crime-scene body outline in the midst of power drivers and wrenches neatly in their place. His hammer was missing.
Malcolm was tired. He had spent most of his day cleaning the house and yet still had his meeting to attend in a few hours. He didn’t have time to search through his house for a misplaced hammer. It was probably still in the kitchen. He turned to his worktable and tilted his head in thought. He supposed that he had done about all that he could and reasoned that he had taken every precaution. With a self-assuring nod, he opened his trunk and pushed aside an old flashlight and a few other miscellaneous items that had ended up inside. He turned back to his worktable and surveyed the bundle that lay atop.
Malcolm was surprised by the weight of Madeline’s limp body. She couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and twenty pounds, especially after all the blood she had lost. With a grunt, he transferred her sheet-wrapped corpse into his plastic-lined trunk. He had lined the trunk almost a week ago in preparation.
As Malcolm drove away to find a place to dump Madeline, he reassured himself that he had done the right thing. He had wasted a year of his life on this girl, hadn’t he? A year spent memorizing facts and details, studying her life, learning her most intimate details. A year spent following Madeline to all of her classes, sitting in on lectures she attended, making notes of who her friends were; a year spent memorizing her daily routine.
It wasn’t his fault she had never noticed him. It was hers. From that first date at the coffee shop. Malcolm had purposely chosen a seat in her field of vision not three tables away from her. He stared at her. He studied her that entire night. He watched as she added the skim milk to her coffee and became furious when she smiled at the idiot barista with the faux hawk and shell necklace. Malcolm made sure to berate the moron when he screwed up his latte.
She looked up at him at least—he wasn’t even sure how many times—but she had looked at him. He thought of smiling a few of those times, but he was nervous. Surely she would have noticed that. And yet, she hadn’t. For all the effort that Malcolm had put into loving Madeline, she was unaware of his existence. Well, she was anyway, until he took her home with him last night. He tied her down and made love to her, and she cried. She didn’t fight him, she didn’t scream out, she just cried. Even after he told her how much he loved her, told her how much he knew about her, how perfect they would be together, Madeline just laid there and cried. He supposed this was partially why he killed her.
Malcolm pulled into an alley way lined with dumpsters. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching, but then thought better of it. He felt he at least owed Madeline a final resting place a little more scenic than a dumpster. Whenever she had moved out of his line of sight at night, he would stare at other parts of her room through his binoculars. He knew that Madeline liked the beach.
It was almost sunset by the time Malcolm got to the cliffs above Portuguese Bend. There was only light traffic on the coastal highway behind him as he pulled his small car off the road and got as near the cliff as he could stand. He heaved Madeline out of his trunk and carried her to the edge. Like everyone else in his life that he had loved, Madeline was dead. He would recover. He would move on from her death much like he was able to move on when his cat died, or when only cousin got in that accident, or even when his mother died of a sudden heart attack. At least this death was planned. There was not that sudden shock upon hearing news that someone you know has left this earth. Malcolm was grateful for that.
He tossed her body unceremoniously from the edge and turned away, not bothering to watch her descend without a hint of grace, her naked body untangling from the sheets and landing in a heap of skin and bone on the jagged rocks below. Malcolm had no need to see her like this. He had his memories and that was fine with him.
By the time he got to his Laundromat, it was already seven o’clock. He stuffed the blood stained sheets and his mixed assortment of whites into the washer with a glass door. Malcolm loved to watch the clothes spin and knew that today would feel especially therapeutic. He added bleach to his wash and a smile spread across his face. He loved the acidic sting he got in the back of his throat when he opened his bottle of Clorox. Bleach was really a remarkable chemical. Malcolm didn’t quite understand, but was nevertheless fascinated by, the means in which the bleach literally broke down the chemical bonds that made up the chromophores. Bleach could chemically alter the material to be devoid of color, to be free of blemishes or mistakes.
Malcolm stared into the washer machine and saw his red sheets spinning wildly inside. Madeline’s lips were red. A bizarre smile spread across his face as his eyes began to lose focus staring at the inner machinations of the spin cycle. The bleach made quick work of the blood as the swirl sheets and water began the transition to pink. Madeline’s skin was pink. The smile upon his face began to vanish. As the wash neared the end of its cycle, his whites had all reached a monochromatic uniformity. The wash cycle had ended.
Malcolm began the awkward task of shuffling the wet clothes into the dryer, taking every precaution to avoid dropping any clothes onto the ground. He set the dryer to just over an hour and rushed out the door.
* * *
Malcolm was late. About a quarter to nine, the meeting started at half past eight, he strolled in to his support group and quickly apologized to his friends. Dr. Stevens smiled at Malcolm and told him not to worry.
“Malcolm,” he smiled while talking, “our good friend, Malcolm, we are simply glad to see you with us once more. Remember, that the key to leading a stress-free life is to free yourself of projected expectations. None of us begrudge you for being late, so try not to worry. Do not apologize, for I am sure that you had very important things to take care of before you arrived here tonight.”
Malcolm took a breath a looked ready to respond.
“And if was something trivial, then all the better, Malcolm, all the better. This group is in place to serve you, not the other way around. You owe us nothing but your ability to listen and willingness to learn and grow.”
Malcolm settled back into his seat and glanced around the circle of familiar faces. Ever since his mother had died, Malcolm had attended this group every other Wednesday without missing a single meeting. They were his friends. He could tell that they were in the middle of sharing: Dr. Stevens would go around the circle and they would respond in turn, telling him about how the last week had been, about upcoming plans, about anything really. The doctor was there to lead group discussion and to teach them how to get stress out of their daily lives. They had all attended a seminar three years ago and had signed up to enlist the help of Dr. Stevens. His prices were very modest and he only required payment at the second meeting of each month or—
“Malcolm? Do you need a minute?”
Malcolm looked up, startled. It was already his time to share.
“W-what was the question?”
“Tell me about your week, Malcolm.”
Malcolm took a deep breath.
“Okay. Okay. I went to work on time every day, except for last Tuesday when I was four—I was four minutes late. My boss got mad. I told him that—I told him—I said for all the days that I was early it balan—it balance—we were—it was even.”
“Good for you, Malcolm. You need to stand up for yourself. What did your boss say to that?”
“He t-t-… He told me that it was my job if um, uh, uh, I was—if it was late again. He said that this was my final warning, even though he’s never warned me before.”
“Okay. Alright. Everyone, we’ve all had to deal with a difficult employer before, haven’t we?”
There was a collective nod around the room.
“Remember what you’ve learned here, Malcolm. You need to focus on the little things when there are bigger things in your life stressing you out. This was last week. How do you feel today?”
“I did my laundry today,” Malcolm suggested.
“And?”
He smiled. “Today was a good day.”
* * *
Malcolm returned to the Laundromat just as his machine ended its cycle. As he threw his clean laundry into his basket, he tried to remember Dr. Stevens’s advice. As stressful as his day had been, he had to remain focused on the present; he needed to let go of his stress and concentrate on the good things in his life. Like bleached whites. His sheets and socks seemed to glow under the harsh fluorescent lighting; freed from their blemishes and discolorations, they were perfect and new.
Malcolm poked his head inside the dryer to see if he had missed anything. Sure enough, a single crew-cut sock was sticking to the side of the washer, forgotten and almost left behind. Malcolm recognized it immediately as Madeline’s. The pink stripe had been bleached white, but the memory was a vivid as ever.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
The Legend of the Pirate Wheel
The following is a letter I wrote to my friend Kunal after selling him a huge, twenty pound pirate wheel.
***
I'm not up to date on my statute-of-limitations knowledge, so I'm going to preface this by saying that once upon a time, the following fictional story took place:
So back in my Sophomore year, I was working in the theatre department's scene shop building sets for money (BEST work/study job EVER, by the way). Anyway, since it was my second year with them, I had built up enough trust for them to send me to collect props from the Underground by myself.
Now, the Underground is this surprisingly massive underground storage facility located beneath East and West Fairchild on south campus. If you ever see a weird, sloping ramp near the Fisk building, by the back side of Crowe, then yeah, that's it. The Underground extends for like, several acres.... Listen, there are entire cities underneath Northwestern and I'm not even joking. Try Googling "Northwestern underground tunnels" sometime. There are maps. But I digress.
So here I am carting this 200 pound wagon halfway across south campus with a list that looks something like:
I unlock this veritable chamber of secrets and descend into the bowels of the Underground. To give you some perspective, there are security/faculty GOLF CARTS down there.
A few minutes later I'm in the theatre storage area and I'm trying to determine if the avocado-green oven I'm looking at is 1950s or 1960s style (I was wrong on both counts, it was 1970s, fuck everything).
That was when I saw it.
Now you have to understand, my friend Aaron and I were always talking about stealing shit from the Underground, so it was definitely already on my mind while I was looking around the place. There were a few of those colorful iMacs from the late 90s, a handful of computer monitors, you know, some fairly high end thieving options. But then: a pirate wheel, in all of its piratical glory. As soon as I saw it, the wind gently blew the salty smell of ocean air across my face. Shut up, I KNOW it was underground, but that's not the point. There was WIND, damnit.
I glanced around to make sure there was no one watching. With all the subtlety of Indiana Jones (and none of the there-was-no-way-in-hell-that-was-working-you'd-better-run-here-comes-certain-death-in-the-form-of-a-giant-boulder) I snatched up the Wheel and placed in on the prop cart. I checked my list. I still needed that fucking oven. Without the slightest thought to period or place, I grabbed the avocado oven and heaved it atop the Wheel. Surely this would suffice in hiding it from prying eyes.
On the way back from the Underground, I started to feel overcome with a sense of dread. Perhaps this was a result of the Curse of the Wheel, perhaps it was because I was Guilty of Stealing. Anyway, I stopped by the bushes that obscure a bike rack between McCormick and Fisk and shoved the Wheel deep within its leafy shelter. No one could know what I had done.
No one.
Two minutes later I happily told Aaron how I had stolen the Wheel from the Underground. He looked at me with an expression of amazement mingled with a tinge of jealousy. It was he, afterall, that was the theatre major. Surely he deserved the Wheel. He wanted to know where I hid it so he could, you know, just look at it on his way home. I hastily told him the location of a DIFFERENT set of bushes and sent him on his way.
On my way home from work, I grabbed the Wheel and balanced it against the handlebars of my bike. I didn’t care how ridiculous I must have looked, steering my mountain bike with a FUCKING PIRATE WHEEL. It was mine and that was all that mattered.
The next day, Aaron questioned me again about the Wheel, and I told him how disappointed I was that it wasn’t there when I returned after work. For good measure I implied that he, Aaron, might have stolen it from me, to which he awkwardly denied. Surely, he had planned on stealing it for himself, which is why I gave him the wrong directions in the first place.
Needless to say, the Pirate Wheel instills a sense of entitlement and greed in all who gaze upon its wondrous piraticality. Guard it well, dear friend, and pass it on when it is time for you to graduate. But be wise, and ensure a sum of money in return. For the Wheel inspires greed, and for it to switch hands without the exchange of money can only lead to direst of circumstances, like having all those you know and love perish instantly. Seriously. It’s fuckin powerful, it can STEER PIRATE SHIPS.
But again, I digress. In three years, you will know what to do.
Be wary of bandits and raiders, and be sure to get someone high so you can hand them the Wheel to try and steer the ship. It's a terribly satisfying experience.
***
I'm not up to date on my statute-of-limitations knowledge, so I'm going to preface this by saying that once upon a time, the following fictional story took place:
So back in my Sophomore year, I was working in the theatre department's scene shop building sets for money (BEST work/study job EVER, by the way). Anyway, since it was my second year with them, I had built up enough trust for them to send me to collect props from the Underground by myself.
Now, the Underground is this surprisingly massive underground storage facility located beneath East and West Fairchild on south campus. If you ever see a weird, sloping ramp near the Fisk building, by the back side of Crowe, then yeah, that's it. The Underground extends for like, several acres.... Listen, there are entire cities underneath Northwestern and I'm not even joking. Try Googling "Northwestern underground tunnels" sometime. There are maps. But I digress.
So here I am carting this 200 pound wagon halfway across south campus with a list that looks something like:
- lamp
- bedpost (just one)
- 1960s oven (NOT 1950s)
- another lamp
- 2 4'x8' platforms
- two lampshades (in case the lamps lack shades)
I unlock this veritable chamber of secrets and descend into the bowels of the Underground. To give you some perspective, there are security/faculty GOLF CARTS down there.
A few minutes later I'm in the theatre storage area and I'm trying to determine if the avocado-green oven I'm looking at is 1950s or 1960s style (I was wrong on both counts, it was 1970s, fuck everything).
That was when I saw it.
Now you have to understand, my friend Aaron and I were always talking about stealing shit from the Underground, so it was definitely already on my mind while I was looking around the place. There were a few of those colorful iMacs from the late 90s, a handful of computer monitors, you know, some fairly high end thieving options. But then: a pirate wheel, in all of its piratical glory. As soon as I saw it, the wind gently blew the salty smell of ocean air across my face. Shut up, I KNOW it was underground, but that's not the point. There was WIND, damnit.
I glanced around to make sure there was no one watching. With all the subtlety of Indiana Jones (and none of the there-was-no-way-in-hell-that-was-working-you'd-better-run-here-comes-certain-death-in-the-form-of-a-giant-boulder) I snatched up the Wheel and placed in on the prop cart. I checked my list. I still needed that fucking oven. Without the slightest thought to period or place, I grabbed the avocado oven and heaved it atop the Wheel. Surely this would suffice in hiding it from prying eyes.
On the way back from the Underground, I started to feel overcome with a sense of dread. Perhaps this was a result of the Curse of the Wheel, perhaps it was because I was Guilty of Stealing. Anyway, I stopped by the bushes that obscure a bike rack between McCormick and Fisk and shoved the Wheel deep within its leafy shelter. No one could know what I had done.
No one.
Two minutes later I happily told Aaron how I had stolen the Wheel from the Underground. He looked at me with an expression of amazement mingled with a tinge of jealousy. It was he, afterall, that was the theatre major. Surely he deserved the Wheel. He wanted to know where I hid it so he could, you know, just look at it on his way home. I hastily told him the location of a DIFFERENT set of bushes and sent him on his way.
On my way home from work, I grabbed the Wheel and balanced it against the handlebars of my bike. I didn’t care how ridiculous I must have looked, steering my mountain bike with a FUCKING PIRATE WHEEL. It was mine and that was all that mattered.
The next day, Aaron questioned me again about the Wheel, and I told him how disappointed I was that it wasn’t there when I returned after work. For good measure I implied that he, Aaron, might have stolen it from me, to which he awkwardly denied. Surely, he had planned on stealing it for himself, which is why I gave him the wrong directions in the first place.
Needless to say, the Pirate Wheel instills a sense of entitlement and greed in all who gaze upon its wondrous piraticality. Guard it well, dear friend, and pass it on when it is time for you to graduate. But be wise, and ensure a sum of money in return. For the Wheel inspires greed, and for it to switch hands without the exchange of money can only lead to direst of circumstances, like having all those you know and love perish instantly. Seriously. It’s fuckin powerful, it can STEER PIRATE SHIPS.
But again, I digress. In three years, you will know what to do.
Be wary of bandits and raiders, and be sure to get someone high so you can hand them the Wheel to try and steer the ship. It's a terribly satisfying experience.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
passing thought on christmas
I don’t know why I can’t be happy.
As everyone moves about the room, happiness flashes across their faces like so many pictures being taken to capture each passing moment.
But still, I know that every moment without you is a moment I would rather not have had at all.
As everyone moves about the room, happiness flashes across their faces like so many pictures being taken to capture each passing moment.
But still, I know that every moment without you is a moment I would rather not have had at all.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
I. You.
I am he that lives and breathes and feels.
I am he that thinks and processes the world around me.
I am he that loves.
I am he that bleeds.
I am he that dies.
And you.
You are she who lives in a world unto your own.
You are she who breathes in air untouched by others.
You are she who feels the love of those around you.
You love.
You bleed.
You die.
And us.
We are they who take steps forward on a planet full of creatures alive and breathing.
We are they who view the world as open to discovery.
We are they who live in love, and love in life.
We love. We bleed.
But we,
we never die.
I am he that thinks and processes the world around me.
I am he that loves.
I am he that bleeds.
I am he that dies.
And you.
You are she who lives in a world unto your own.
You are she who breathes in air untouched by others.
You are she who feels the love of those around you.
You love.
You bleed.
You die.
And us.
We are they who take steps forward on a planet full of creatures alive and breathing.
We are they who view the world as open to discovery.
We are they who live in love, and love in life.
We love. We bleed.
But we,
we never die.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
A few quick words...
I'm sitting on the couch in my parents' hotel room at 2:00 in the morning; my commencement is behind me, and I have only my school convocation later today before I receive my diploma. I have been surrounded by old friends, family, and loved ones for days; toasts have been made in my honor all night. My mother bought be my first official "Northwestern | Alumni" shirt, my bags are packed in preparation for my move back to Los Angeles, and I have a fire burning deep within the pit of my stomach propelling me forward. And yet...
I'm sitting on the couch in my parent's hotel room at 2:00 in the morning unable to sleep. An hour ago I switched into my running shorts and left the room in search of a gym to blow off some steam. I worked out. I cooled off. I cleared my head, got ready for bed, and checked my email.
I regret everything, and yet I don't think I would change anything.
But I'm sitting on the couch in my parent's hotel room because it was never supposed to happen this way. I never thought that I would feel this alone while standing on the precipice of the rest of my life. I never intended to drive this path by myself.
We changed the ending, but we never figured out where that ending was supposed to go.
I hate the fact that I require a companion to function properly. I have never been able to set out on my own and accomplish anything worthwhile. And yet everyone I once knew to fill that void is gone. The friend who moved away during college. The friend who grew distant with time. The friends with whom I may never again share a fraternal or collegiate moment are moving up, or moving on; regardless the direction, it is a path I cannot follow.
I hate knowing that the right decision could be filled with as much pain as the wrong decision, and never knowing which decision was which.
And now...
I'm sitting on the couch in my parent's hotel room at 2:19 in the morning, and it's time to get some sleep.
I'm sitting on the couch in my parent's hotel room at 2:00 in the morning unable to sleep. An hour ago I switched into my running shorts and left the room in search of a gym to blow off some steam. I worked out. I cooled off. I cleared my head, got ready for bed, and checked my email.
I regret everything, and yet I don't think I would change anything.
But I'm sitting on the couch in my parent's hotel room because it was never supposed to happen this way. I never thought that I would feel this alone while standing on the precipice of the rest of my life. I never intended to drive this path by myself.
We changed the ending, but we never figured out where that ending was supposed to go.
I hate the fact that I require a companion to function properly. I have never been able to set out on my own and accomplish anything worthwhile. And yet everyone I once knew to fill that void is gone. The friend who moved away during college. The friend who grew distant with time. The friends with whom I may never again share a fraternal or collegiate moment are moving up, or moving on; regardless the direction, it is a path I cannot follow.
I hate knowing that the right decision could be filled with as much pain as the wrong decision, and never knowing which decision was which.
And now...
I'm sitting on the couch in my parent's hotel room at 2:19 in the morning, and it's time to get some sleep.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Welding
I was talking to a friend earlier today who's in a very similar situation to myself. He's got an ex he's still not quite over, and a newer girl who he's involved with. He didn't understand why he still would think about his ex, even though he knew he never wanted to get back together with her. That's when I thought about the following idea:
When two people fall in love, it's like two pieces of metal getting molded together in perfect unison. Over the course of time, these two lovers melt into each other forging a bond that's stronger than either one individually. Even when the fire and the passion burns away, there is a strong foundation and an unbreakable mold left behind to fall back on. As the inevitable fallout ensures, the metal, this bond, slowly starts getting chipped away, piece by piece; and by the end, you're left with two pieces, their ends jagged and painful. What's worse is that the metal that melted together still contains pieces of the other person, and until all of those pieces have been removed, there will always be pain.
When two people fall in love, it's like two pieces of metal getting molded together in perfect unison. Over the course of time, these two lovers melt into each other forging a bond that's stronger than either one individually. Even when the fire and the passion burns away, there is a strong foundation and an unbreakable mold left behind to fall back on. As the inevitable fallout ensures, the metal, this bond, slowly starts getting chipped away, piece by piece; and by the end, you're left with two pieces, their ends jagged and painful. What's worse is that the metal that melted together still contains pieces of the other person, and until all of those pieces have been removed, there will always be pain.
Friday, April 10, 2009
the hunt
it was simple and direct.
you had regret in your eyes
while you discounted the years
and preyed on my fears,
but you were cold and imprecise.
you didn't bother to check
for my pulse as I lay there
bloodied to a pulp.
a lioness pawing at her kill.
amused by this newfound power
you purr as my defenses fail.
you could have finished me,
only you hesitate,
watching as the life drains from my face
like water from a sponge:
unnoticeable at first
yet immeasurably changed.
you had regret in your eyes
while you discounted the years
and preyed on my fears,
but you were cold and imprecise.
you didn't bother to check
for my pulse as I lay there
bloodied to a pulp.
a lioness pawing at her kill.
amused by this newfound power
you purr as my defenses fail.
you could have finished me,
only you hesitate,
watching as the life drains from my face
like water from a sponge:
unnoticeable at first
yet immeasurably changed.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
If It Ain't Spring Broke, Don't Fix It
SO many many things going on lately.
Quick recap:
- Came home on March 14 to surprise Makenzie (she was shocked)
- Told my parents that I plan to move back home after graduation to pursue a career in Hollywood
- Realized within fifteen minutes of announcing my move back home that I hate living at home
- Caught up with some old friends
- Was caught off guard by something I thought had ended some time ago
- Dealt with some family d-ram-a
So yeah, along with the normal chismas and bullshit that goes along with any trip home, I'm finding myself creeping ever closer to that mystical and terrifying region of life known as "adulthood." Fuck that noise. The moment I can afford to move out, I'll do it. The moment I get my big break in Hollywood, I'm taking it. The moment I have to "grow up," I'm running hell-bent in the other direction. I will consider it a personal failure if I end up driving a Taurus and pulling a 9-5 by the time I'm 30. As a good friend says, "Live to rage, rage to live." There's no reason to do otherwise.
Quick recap:
- Came home on March 14 to surprise Makenzie (she was shocked)
- Told my parents that I plan to move back home after graduation to pursue a career in Hollywood
- Realized within fifteen minutes of announcing my move back home that I hate living at home
- Caught up with some old friends
- Was caught off guard by something I thought had ended some time ago
- Dealt with some family d-ram-a
So yeah, along with the normal chismas and bullshit that goes along with any trip home, I'm finding myself creeping ever closer to that mystical and terrifying region of life known as "adulthood." Fuck that noise. The moment I can afford to move out, I'll do it. The moment I get my big break in Hollywood, I'm taking it. The moment I have to "grow up," I'm running hell-bent in the other direction. I will consider it a personal failure if I end up driving a Taurus and pulling a 9-5 by the time I'm 30. As a good friend says, "Live to rage, rage to live." There's no reason to do otherwise.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Some quick thoughts.
So... this week is I-Week at the house, which basically means very little sleep, lots of events, and the eventual initiation of our new guys. Yay fraternity. If you can't tell, I am BURNT out. I can see the light at the end of this collegiate tunnel, and I want nothing more than to push onward and outward. It isn't that I'm not enjoying myself this week, it's that I'm starting to lose interest in the frivolity of the fun and games I used to live for.
My time at Margie Korshak Inc. is almost over, my last day being Friday, March 13th. I'm basically trying to figure out I could live with doing Public Relations until i get my "big break" and i'm learning that, no, I would not be happy doing PR. PR is a woman's world in the sense that it requires an inordinate amount of multi-tasking and in my time with the company, I have met but ONE MAN working for PR. I know men exist in this field, and I'm sure they thrive... But let's be honest: I get enough estrogen with the women in my family. Still being truthful, my time at MKI has been a wonderful experience. If I can arrange it so I work for them one or two days a week next quarter, I will drop a class and add them instead, but financially, I am not sure if I am going to be able to afford not earning an income for yet ANOTHER three months.
Aside from that, not much going on this week. I'm meeting with a guy who runs the Media Lab for the Art Theory department with the hopes of getting a work-study job for the quarter that pays $9 an hour. It's not much, but it's better than most of the crappy jobs they offer around here. It'll help a little, and I can figure out a way to do that and work at MKI for another quarter (the perks are incredible) then I'll be set. Honestly, it's all about filling time until I graduate at this point. Come on, diploma..... :-)
My time at Margie Korshak Inc. is almost over, my last day being Friday, March 13th. I'm basically trying to figure out I could live with doing Public Relations until i get my "big break" and i'm learning that, no, I would not be happy doing PR. PR is a woman's world in the sense that it requires an inordinate amount of multi-tasking and in my time with the company, I have met but ONE MAN working for PR. I know men exist in this field, and I'm sure they thrive... But let's be honest: I get enough estrogen with the women in my family. Still being truthful, my time at MKI has been a wonderful experience. If I can arrange it so I work for them one or two days a week next quarter, I will drop a class and add them instead, but financially, I am not sure if I am going to be able to afford not earning an income for yet ANOTHER three months.
Aside from that, not much going on this week. I'm meeting with a guy who runs the Media Lab for the Art Theory department with the hopes of getting a work-study job for the quarter that pays $9 an hour. It's not much, but it's better than most of the crappy jobs they offer around here. It'll help a little, and I can figure out a way to do that and work at MKI for another quarter (the perks are incredible) then I'll be set. Honestly, it's all about filling time until I graduate at this point. Come on, diploma..... :-)
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Posting from behind enemy lines
I'm trying to post this from my iPod Touch and I'm having a hell of a time... Anyway, quick post is that Kristin's staying over tonight so we can have some hang out time. We rented movies, we're hanging out with friends... I guess it's kind of getting a sneak peek of what normal will eventually be like. I've become the cool guy in the movies whose best friend is a girl, and no one thinks anything about it, only I think about it a lot. I guess that's what we never learn about that guy in the movies; what's their history? Why are they "just friends"? Have they ever had sex? Would having it now destroy the friendship? Are they Jerry & Elaine or are they Harry & Sally? Anyway. Kristin's spending the night. She's sleeping in the next room on my couch. This is healthy, right? I swear I only write neurotic...
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Like finding a box of photographs yellowed and tinted with age
Wow. Besides being the worst blogger in the history of blogging, I am making a quick entry before going to sleep tonight.
So much has happened since I last posted... So much of my life has been completely changed and turned on its head since, when is that? September 14, 2008. ((The word is "e-r-r-o" by the way. Pronounced like "arrow" but with an "e")). Kristin and I broke up, and this the first time I've been able to write about it since the day it ended.
December 11, 2008 - 95 days since last post.
Almost one hundred days of sustained, prolonged, murder as our relationship broke into so many fragments that it was unrecognizable by the end. Kristin began to shut down, to turn away from the relationship around the beginning of September, when she went back to school. She was happy, she was busy, she was fulfilled; but most of all, she was doing it alone. Not to say that her only happiness should have involved me--far from it. It was important, however, because this was the first real time that she allowed herself separation from the one constant she had had for nearly four years.
By the time October rolled around, we were in rehearsal to sing at my sister's wedding. Maybe it was fitting that we sang Eagles, "Love Will Keep Us Alive," because it certainly couldn't have been further from the truth for the pair of us. I will always be grateful for the opportunity we had to sing for my older sister's wedding, as the song could not have been a better fit for Marissa and Gino. The stress of being among family, however, desperate to be the happy, collegiate couple in a sea of prying relatives was something neither of us were prepared for. The sensory overload of wedding gowns, tuxedos, babies, cakes, flowers, and doves, even, was enough to force us to look at our relationship from the outside looking in.
It wasn't a pretty picture.
Thanksgiving came and went, and I returned home for Winter Break a week before she. Given the freedom of a week to clear my mind, I came to the conclusion that our relationship had become incompatible with life and would require immediate, invasive surgery with a very low probability of survival. The problems that had plagued us over the years hadn't piled up, and there wasn't a new obstacle in our way that we couldn't face. But as a couple, we had ignored and marginalized the one glaring problem we knew we'd have to face from day one. For her part, Kristin had a laundry list of issues with which she was unhappy, things that she had buried inside her all year and simply neglected to bring up. This bitterness over my shortcomings was what made her shut down at the end of Summer, and I can hardly fault her for it.
A litany of mistakes and differences can be overcome, but a mountain of an issue--when ignored for as long as we did--simply could not be breached. I don't want to get too detailed here, as ultimately what passed between Kristin and I is entirely our private business, but I will mention that sometimes, two people can be be so completely blinded by love, that they know not Love. As Shakespeare wrote in The Merchant of Venice, "but love is blind and lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit."
It was as if Kristin and I were standing but a foot apart, staring into each others' eyes and unable to see, touch, or hear each other. We were completely cut off from an escape, as I was convinced it was she who was not listening, that it was she who was refusing to hear my cries. Kristin, of course, was convinced that I was not shouting, that my cries were figments of imagination. Or as Paul wrote in his first letter to the Corinthians, "For now we see through a mirror, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known."
Sunday, February 15, 2009 -- One day after Valentine's Day, one week before what would have been our 4th anniversary.
The pain does not subside. The sickening rage that boils inside the pits of my stomach cripples me emotionally. I am blind, still; unable to see, to make sense of the world around me without groping about to gain my footing, to set a bearing. She has moved on in a sense, her grieving from the loss having begun nearly half a year ago. I am reeling, lost inside my own head as I try to make sense and order out of that which has no logic. I keep myself together in public, but can only last so long in social settings; it's as if I have late-onset-agoraphobia. I retreat into solitude far more often than I have in the past, and anyone who knows my fear of being alone will tell you what a significant shift this is for me. To go from fearing solitude to fearing company... if Elisabeth Kübler-Ross is worth her salt, then I am somewhere residing in the 4th stage of grief right now. Lovely.
Anyway, I need sleep, and then I'm off to my comedy-screenwriting class--a welcome escape into laughter that helps me start each week.
I promise a more uplifting and optimistic post in the near future, however these are emotions I've simply needed to purge. Godbless.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
In search of words...
Most writers have various elements of language that they obsess over, fetishize even. I've written about my creative writing professor who was in love with the sentence, and about people who seem to think in paragraphs, always taking several sentences to arrive at one point. Lately, I've been obsessing over a single word, but it isn't in the English language. I am trying to discover the Tongva word for "fox" and am having no end of trouble in doing so. As it turns out, Tongva has been a dead language since around the 1940s, having died alongside Tongva culture as civilization swept through California. That being so, I have turned to a website that claims to research Native American languages in hopes of finding answers.
http://www.native-languages.org
Hopefully they can help.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Weekly Updates
So it seems as though I have found a way to settle into what I had originally intended this site's rhythm to be: weekly posts, sometimes more mini-posts like this one to update people on what was coming next. Basically, I'm writing a new short story right now about the best bad decision I ever made. It involves me cheating on my girlfriend and discovering who I really am.
Enough of a teaser? More soon...
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Home at Last...
So I'm finally home in lovely Rancho Palos Verdes, California!! Freaking gorgeous night, too. I can see all the stars and it's warm outside. Anyway, I condensed all of my cell phone posts into this post to save space on the homepage. Here is my list of texts from early early this morning until tonight when I landed...
All posts from now until late Sat night are sent from my cell.
finishing packing right now, will try to sleep before cab comes.
SCRIBBLED BY JONNY GOMEZ AT 5:18 AM
Finished packing. Exhausted. Someone please call me at noon, central time, to make sure
i'm awake. Flight's at 5:40, cab is @ 2:00
SCRIBBLED BY JONNY GOMEZ AT 6:17 AM
Just called my cab. Will be here in hour and a half. Hard to believe i'm now a senior in
college. It's unreal.
SCRIBBLED BY JONNY GOMEZ AT 1:07 PM
Just got in cab, on way to O'Hare. Nice indian cabbie, very talkative. Will update soon.
SCRIBBLED BY JONNY GOMEZ AT 2:54 PM
I think my cabbie is a United rep. He keeps talking about United Airlines like they fellate
you in your seat.
SCRIBBLED BY JONNY GOMEZ AT 3:10 PM
Freaking twenty bucks to check two bags. Madness. Standing in line for security.
SCRIBBLED BY JONNY GOMEZ AT 3:39 PM
Sitting on plane. On time. JetBlue flight #937, ETA 7:41 pm PST.
Will post again from California. See you on the other side!
SCRIBBLED BY JONNY GOMEZ AT 5:23 PM
AhHaha. Weight balance issue on plane. They're moving people up in rows cause we're
back heavy. I'm in last row with 2 LARGE women
SCRIBBLED BY JONNY GOMEZ AT 5:43 PM
Just landed in beautiful, sunny, Long Beach, California. Really turbulent flight...
SCRIBBLED BY JONNY GOMEZ AT 9:47 PM
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Old Poetry
I was hanging out with Kacin the other day and we started going through old poetry the other had had written. Anyway, I figured I would post some of my favorite poems here:
[Untitled]
How can life confront me with these choices,
When I have been so needlessly confused?
Should I take heed of all of the voices,
I'd be left feeling senselessly abused.
I see your brown eyes, and they say to me:
"Get away from spirits haunting your past.
Hindsight is not life, you're here presently.
Find what it is you need for peace at last."
Tender words of wisdom given freely
Like warmth from a comforting summer rain.
No audible speech is necessary;
Water from Heaven washes away pain.
Wisdom can be, quite unfortunately
elusive. It can drive a man insane.
--Jonny Gomez
June of 2003, 15 years old
Dynasty
The sun shines sweetly down
shining bright as heaven's gates.
A springtime dusk approaches,
the moon behind me waits.
He waits with ravenous desire
to steal the Light King's throne.
The sunset dims, the moon will win,
his victory trumpet blown.
Wicked stars come forth to claim
positions in his kingdom.
Yet darkness fades, the moon does know
his time to rule is soon done.
A rooster yonder crows,
behold! The herald of the morn.
The darkness slips into remiss
and thus: a day is born.
--Jonny Gomez
February of 2002, 14 years old
Anyway, those are a couple old poems that I found. I'll probably post more under new posts to make the title look fancier, especially the poems I like a lot more than these I just posted. Interesting fact, that first poem was written about a week before my grandfather passed away from cancer. Poetry written after his death gets a lot darker for me...
Sent from my cell phone:
Update! Two hours till my final paper is due and I only have one page left!
Teh lite at teh ends of teh tunnel!
I sees it!!!
IQ Scores and unfulfilled potential
140-\
154--> An average, or "true IQ," score of 149.33...
154-/
This handy chart on Wikipedia says that I'm "Highly Gifted." The only reason that I'm posting this is because it reminds me of what my parents have always gotten on my case for. My parents used to always tell me that I wasn't living up to my potential, that if I were to actually try hard in school, I'd get straight As, etc. My teachers usually echoed the same sentiments, frustrated that I would slack off in their classes and still come out unscathed with either a B+ or A-.
My older sister practically killed herself in school, she had incredibly organized notes, study guides, and to her credit got a pretty good SAT score and got into Baylor University (the first in our family to get a degree, btw, so incredibly proud of her). Then there's me, the kid who shrugged it all off, almost missed getting his letters of recommendation and applications in on time, only to find an acceptance letter in the mail from Northwestern University.
This isn't meant to be some sort of bragging thing, and for all I know those IQ tests weren't accurate and I'm really normal IQ'd (?) at around 100. The point is, I've never cared about grades and academic assessments because I'm an artist. Such a black and white measurement of talent or worth has always felt gross to me. Remember, writing is my art. But then again so is filmmaking, acting, singing, and playing music. I understand the sciences but I don't want to. I don't want to look at a star in the sky and think "wow, look at that massive luminous ball of plasma!" I want to be able to look at a star and see a pinprick of light shining down on us from the heavens able to represent... anything and everything.
My mind wanders. My brain is constantly traveling faster than I can write or speak and I often find myself consciously thinking about something two topics from now before realizing that I'm still talking. The result is often a blank look on my face and the question, "Wait, what was I saying?"
(Editor's note: I now pause for a moment to capitalize the "i" and change "sayig" to "saying")
Shit. God-forbid if I get a typo like I just did right now. I have no idea where I was going with that last paragraph. I apologize. Um...
...
Nothing. So much for that bullshit IQ score.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Ebbs
You
inspire
in my heart
the art of the
divine; heaven
blessed inspiration
sent down to me from
you that fills my life and gives
me a reason to live like a
blind man who missed
so much life suddenly
given eyes with
which he sees
the world for
the first
time
enough
to notice
that haircut
or the way you
smile at me when
you think I'm not looking
at your eyes, your laughing
eyes that never take anything
seriously like that time I came home
so frustrated and all you could do was
laugh at me and tell me I was being
childish like you never act like a
child who sits there pouting in
a chair asking anyone who
cares to listen why no one
is paying any attention
to her when maybe
someone is there
just across the
room writing
a poem all
about the
way she
moves
him.
inspire
in my heart
the art of the
divine; heaven
blessed inspiration
sent down to me from
you that fills my life and gives
me a reason to live like a
blind man who missed
so much life suddenly
given eyes with
which he sees
the world for
the first
time
enough
to notice
that haircut
or the way you
smile at me when
you think I'm not looking
at your eyes, your laughing
eyes that never take anything
seriously like that time I came home
so frustrated and all you could do was
laugh at me and tell me I was being
childish like you never act like a
child who sits there pouting in
a chair asking anyone who
cares to listen why no one
is paying any attention
to her when maybe
someone is there
just across the
room writing
a poem all
about the
way she
moves
him.
Creative Writing
So that last entry was an essay that I wrote in my Creative Non-Fiction class that I took in the Fall here at NU. It was taught by the lovely Professor Fran Paden, who may very well be the greatest writing professor at the university. I've found that English and Literature teachers tend to become obsessed with one form of the language or another at times, and Professor Paden was absolutely enthralled with the sentence. One of the first exercises she had us do in the class was to take a sentence by a specific author, such as Annie Dillard, and replicate the syntax and rhythm as best we could. For example, she gave us the following on day 1:
"His journal is tracks in clay, a spray of feathers, mouse blood and bone: uncollected, unconnected, loose-leaf and blown." -- Annie Dillard
And here was my attempt to replicate the sentence:
"Her music is pen on paper, a rhythm of words, ideas and tone: no melodies, no harmonies, a sonata all her own." -- Jonny Gomez
It was this type of work that got us thinking about sentence structure as more than simply iterating an idea. A sentence could be as beautiful as a poem, wrapped up in a tiny syntactical bundle and hidden away within the walls of a paragraph.
In my senior year of high school, my AP Literature teacher used to wax philosophical whenever we ended class early. Our bags would be packed and we'd be getting ready to bolt at the first sound of the bell when Mr. Colin (yes, my Lit teacher's name was actually Mr. COLIN) would lean his tall, lanky frame against his podium at the front of the class and begin to audibly mull over the thoughts in his head. People were usually too busy checking their watches and staring at disbelief at the clock on the wall, silently willing the bell to ring a few minutes early, to pause for a moment and listen to what he had to say. On this one day, I actually listened.
"Painters paint," he began in his deep, stentorian voice. "Musicians make music and actors act. But for me... Writing is my art."
I shifted the weight of my backpack from shoulder to shoulder and leaned in to hear him better.
"I remember being in college," he continued, "distraught over the fact that I was not artistic, that my talents only leant themselves to researching and cataloguing and the sort. Then one day a professor of mine said to me, 'Bruce, don't ever forget that anything can be artful. The simple grace of the dancer is no more art than the eloquent beauty of the written word. Writing, is my art.' "
Mr. Colin glanced up at his class, all of us there physically, only about half of us there mentally.
"Don't ever be embarrassed to embrace your art," he finished.
It was sometime after this moment that I knew I wanted to be a writer. It took me some time to figure out exactly what kind of writing would be best, but it was that moment that I remember; tall, sweater-vested Mr. Colin reliving a moment from his past while his class looked on. Only artists become so lost in their own minds.
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