I'm Back Home, I want to go

A friend told me to write about being back home after my first year away at college. I am not entirely sure if he was aware of the amount of time I have thought about this exact thing. Nor do I suspect, that he has any idea what my thoughts and feelings may be.



Before I shift into the darkness I will dwell on the light. I love my family, my brother, my mother, my father. I enjoy spending time with them, getting to listen about their days. I love talking with my grandmother and making her laugh; listening to her talk adoringly of her cat, and crying the next moment for whatever reason. I have the patience to listen to her repeat herself again, and again. And for the time being she still remembers our names, but that time is short.

The disease is taking her quickly, and I watch my mom struggle with it. I watch her stress and worry, and internalize her fear that Alzheimer's will eventually take her mind as well. I embrace her and let her know that it will not happen (for it very likely won't) her mind is sharp and her memory is close to flawless. She is frightened regardless of my observations, so I try to change the subject and make her laugh.

I'm good at that you know, I produce a sarcastic remark and mention some news I had not shared, then turn it toward something she cares about. I get her talking about school, and teaching, and Spanish. I focus her on her passion and she forget--if only for a moment.

The problem is, I never forget these things. While my memory has always been terrible, I have never had trouble recollecting the bad. The terrible and awful things that have happened; to myself, and to the rest of the world. I want to be apathetic to it all and walk away, but I cannot. I am tired, I am exhausted, of everything and everyone--myself included, sometimes myself the most. It is not a hatred or loathing that I have, as some of my friends and family claim that I possess. No, I don't hate anything really, do things disgust me? Do I find a great deal of things pathetic and stupid? Yes, god yes. I think human beings are broken, broken beyond repair. With everyday I become more and more aware of how broken each person is. How pathetically, and childishly fucked up they are. How the most insignificant and silly things can put someone in a foul mood. Everyone is guilty of it, myself included no matter how arrogant I appear in writing this.

Human beings are so scared of everything. I suppose that is something I hate, the amount of irrational fear people possess. The fact that I lack the capacity to walk up to a girl I don't know and have a conversation with her in an attempt to get her number. Or that so many girls and guys are so afraid of relationships that they will do anything to sabotage a potential one. I don't want to play this game anymore, I want to have fun, I want be there for the people that mean something to me, but more than anything I want to not be needed. I want to slip away in the night and never come back. I want all bonds of love and friendship to be severed without pain, without memory, so that I may go in peace. I will never be happy, I can only have fun, and push these terrible thoughts to the back of my mind.

I'll be hangin'

from a rope.

Summer Time, and the Livin's askingmetogettwojobs

Aaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnd that's the Dad I want to be. Night folks.

From the Mind of a Boy: An Update (more of a revamp)

Buried Treasure

            Dark, thick blades of grass tumbled and bent in torrents of waves along the hills. Shades of green, yellow and brown laced and intertwined as the wind swept through the plains. The flowing hills stretched as far as the eye could see. While a few scattered oak trees littered the view. The sun perched directly overhead while thick tufts of clouds loftily paraded across the skyline, dipping the world in and out of the shadows. The chestnut oaks hoisted themselves towards the light; their long crenate edges gulping down the fresh spring air. Each stood as a lone tower amongst the bending hills.

            Upon the tallest hill stood the shortest, oak its trunk thick and harrowed with age. Long, rough, protruding brown scales formed the bark. The cracks between each one served as a massive highway for whatever insects chose to travel to such exotic heights. Yet the view was not the same. White linens decked the inner layers of branches, and tattered strips could be seen poking out from the edge of the leaves. And at the ridge of the trunk where each branch separated, stood a boy.

            The boy cast his eyes along the horizon, watching the hills melt into roaring waves. The wind whisked across the deck, drawing up roiling waves lathered in browned sea foam that cascaded against the hull. The wind was gusty and headed in the wrong direction; the boy knew it would be a long journey. He crouched and began uncurling a roll of parchment, tracing his finger along the dotted line until it reached the large black X. His finger paused there and began tapping it repeatedly; his mind drifting off to the splendor buried beneath the earth.

            The wind roared as it attempted to tear the map from his grasp, but the boy clutched it firmly, creasing thick jagged folds along the parchment. The sound of the crackling paper made him shudder and smile. He rolled up the map and tucked it safely into his coat. A noise drew his attention; it was the flapping of sails. He scrambled up the mast to reattach the loosened topsail; once it was secure he glanced down to the helm of the ship expecting to see his first mate. A glancing blow struck him as the memory of their last voyage came to mind: He had been abandoned by his first mate; all for the sake of some rumored treasure. Well there would be no sharing of this bounty, were he to return.

            The boy gripped the wheel, steering his way against the wind, and through the waves it brought with it. They were waves as large as hills, and even those were crested with smaller waves, that ran along them in rippling currents. But the wheel was held true upon its course, his hands steady against the force the sea was unleashing upon him. He synched the wheel with rope, and clambered up into the crow’s nest. Through the thicket of green, and across the billowing sea he saw the island; it was close, very close. He slid down the mast to the helm of the ship. He yelled for the crew to drop anchor, and began to gather supplies for his journey to the island. Shovel, check, map, check, it was all there. The rowboat had already been lowered, so he jumped down and began to paddle towards the island.

            A shovel was a poor excuse for a paddle, he thought as he ran up to the island. He stopped at the beach to pull out the map and catch his breath. There was a pattern to the rocks here, at least from what he could discern. The boy knew the rock he was looking for would have the same mark that was displayed upon the map. This island was covered in rocks of all different sizes and colors; the one he was looking for would be small and black. As he moved about the island he noticed there wasn’t a person in sight, this was good; that would mean there would be less of a chance that he would have to fight off other pirates for the treasure.

            The rocks began to blur together, his eyes only searching for the symbol displayed on the map. After what felt like an hour of searching, he finally stood before it. The boy grinned, the fools had not even bothered to disguise the hiding place; it was evident that the earth had been dug up recently. The shovel sunk into the earth with ease, and he wrenched it from the ground overflowing with the soil that separated him from his infinite wealth.

            The process took hours; the sun was no longer overhead, it waned down casting long heavy shadows upon everything it touched. While he sat regaining his breath, he clutched at his throat, sore from thirst. It did not matter, the treasure was his priority. Now on his feet and the shovel back in his hands he dug deeper, his vigor renewed. Sweat was pouring down his body, and several flies buzzed about pestering his neck and face. Again, he dug his spade into the ground, but this time he was met with the hollow crack of wood. The treasure at last; he would become rich, and with his wealth, happiness. He dug around the edges completely unearthing the chest so he could take a look within.

            He ran his fingers around the sides of the chest; no lock or latch. He sat for a moment puzzled and began dusting off the top. Nails, they had secured their treasure by the use of nails. Laughter filled the hole, as he scoffed at these pathetic pirates. With ease he drove the edge of his spade between the lid and the chest, and began prying them apart. His heart ran wildly as he eagerly loosened each nail from the chest.

            One nail popped out, then another, and another. The pace of his breath now matched his heart, and that was all he could hear. The buzz of flies withered into a deadening silence, and his deafness to the outside world took him into the depths and sounds of his body. And then, the last nail was free, and the hammering of his heart continued, but his breathing did not.

            The boy knelt, his fingers curling under the lid of the chest, relishing the smooth touch of unblemished wood. After a moment of hesitation he drew back the lid, and every sound came back. The wind was whipping above, and the flies no longer buzzed along his face, but dove into the stench that rose from the chest. And in the shadows of the hole, the memories flooded back. The bed and the cold metal railings, the tears, and the awful people dressed in white. He remembered the adults that did nothing—the adults that stood there, as he did, and watched. The tears came back with the memories. Pouring, tearing, and drowning him with what had happened. He knew now what the symbols of the stone now read:

Here Lies “First mate”

Loving brother, and son.

Loved and missed.

The boy remembers now; the sea took him, the sea did, that must be how.

I would like

To say that I have been busy, and that is what has been keeping me from posting, but truth be told I am not. I am lazy (oh so very lazy). I have half a dozen writing projects I am currently working on and none of them are finished or close to finished. Some of them are due very shortly too; unfortunately the ones I want to work on are ones I have started writing for my own pleasure and have nothing to do with any of my classes--though it is quite likely I could use them in future assignments.

So, umm this--I imagine--is where I say that I will be posting soon; that I will be back up on top of my game and keeping things updated. Truth be told--I fucking doubt it. (A curse word in my writing, I am not entirely sure why) it does appear to emphasize the doubt though.

 Merp Derp. Blerp. alrighty. later kiddos.

More of an Update

One of my favorite bands and one of my favorite pump me up songs

So, quite a few things have been going on. Leaving me rather unable to update or write new material (it has a lot to do with my laziness than anything else). In good news, my brother has been accepted to Sonoma and will be attending here in the Fall (this is by far the highlight of my year, even if it is only 29 days into the year).

Second on the list would be the fact that I am now partaking in two creative writing classes; I had hoped that this would cause my blog to explode with posts, but I have yet to begin any serious writing for the classes. I am stuck trying to establish rewrites and edits of old things I have from the past. I want to completely rework and rewrite From the Mind of a Boy: Part 1 and expand it into about ten pages. The trouble with that is, I only have one paragraph rewritten. My mind has not been hopping into the mode of writing that I want. (which means I am not truly a good or legitimate writer if you need inspiration) at least there is some quote like that. So, I suppose I just need to start writing because I do have an outline of what I would like the piece to do and what changes are to be made.

Well, that is what happens to be consuming my time, well that and an excessive amount of video games, but fear not, I shall return. Also I do not plan to proofread or check over any spelling or grammatical errors in this post because I do not give a poop. I need to begin working on more important writing. Which will begin
Right
about....
....
Now.

Guardian

This is Guardian. Surprisingly enough I have never posted about him before. As many people refer to him: Nathaniel's creepy bear rug. I must assert that he is so much more than just a rug, in fact he is no rug at all. Guardian is the last memento from my Grandpa Doug a year or so before he died, but he stayed stuffed up in my closet for several years before I realized this was the last token I had from my Grandpa since he had passed.

As is my nature, I have created a child like fantasy behind Guardian and his existence. I was 18 I guess, and I had just put him down on my carpet in my room. I had a friend in my room, I think it was a girl, and she saw him and was immediately given the creeps--which seems to be a trend--from this bear rug. I insisted that it was fine, "He's cool, I promise." Before I could react she asked me what his name was, and at the time I had not given him one. That would not stop me, I had to name him like he was an old time friend, a cherished part of my past and childhood. "His name? His name is Guardian."
"What kind of a name is Guardian for a bear rug?" Which obviously meant that his name needed to have purpose, and it did. From the moment I named him I instantly knew what he was. "Guardian is a perfectly good name for him, that's what he is. Guardian."
"What do you mean? He's a bear rug."
"Well you see that's the thing, he's not a bear rug. There is a very old spirit lying within the fur and skin of this bear. Every night when I go to sleep he awakens. He comes alive and guards my body and mind while I sleep. He nestles up at the foot of my bed and protects me from any threats that may come to me."
As I made up this story, I believed every word. Guardian did all of these things, he brought back moments of shared wisdom from my Grandpa, and lecturing, and scolding, and life lessons that have stuck with me to this very day.

I have no problem diving into my imagination and believing in silly fantasies such as this. I knew Toy Story was not real, but that still didn't keep me from talking to my toys, and hoping that there was some truth to it all. I have never stopped playing and pretending as the little boy in the backyard wielding a wooden stick that turned into a blazing sword of light; the boy that could fight off an entire army by himself, and sometimes with his little brother at his side. I see things that everyone else cannot see. There is a dangerous and beautiful world of beasts, bad guys, buildings and dark forests, and for the most part I have faced them all. This world is my safe haven; I am not scared of them, I am not scared of the dark. I am scared of reality, I am scared by the smile of a pretty girl, and getting caught staring at her. I am scared of hurting my friends; I am scared of failing them. I am scared I have led them to believe too many negative things, about myself and the world. I am scared everyone has forgotten who I am; I am scared they have never known. I am just a boy, a boy who despite all his trying, cares for everyone in his life; a boy that wants to make them laugh, smile and enjoy every moment they are alive. I am just a 21 year old boy, daydreaming, imagining, fighting and still crushing on a multitude of girls. The next time you see me, ask me what I see, maybe, just maybe, if you open your eyes you can see this world too, and all the beauty and wonders it has to offer.

Why another Jack post? Or even another song post? Because Jack Johnson is one of the few and largest inspirations in my life.