Well, I just got a Wordpress not long ago, and so I'm posting there now. I also imported all my stuff from here including any comments you have made. So, go ahead and check it out:
www.thatlittlenotebook.wordpress.com
Friday, September 19, 2008
Sunday, August 31, 2008
.:Snippets:.
Well, I haven't written any poetry/songs to almost-completion recently. So, here are some snippets of recent--and not-so-recent--ideas.
We'll start with something probably a year and a half old? The rest are probably only a couple months old at most.
_________________________
~I think I said this before
I don't want to hear these conversations anymore
Continual forgiveness of a reacurring sin
Is weighing on my heart {My heart, oh so thin}
My hands are tied
This forgiveness bind me to
Forget what I thought of you
_________________________
Had you been there
{Waiting for the smile,
Reassurance.}
Under my window where your shadow
Should be standing--
Then you would know
_________________________
In the beginning I was created
And now I'm allowing
Myself to become
Outdated
_________________________
Oh, anonomous answer website
Do you ever feel wrong
In always doing what is right?
_________________________
Stop this pain
Stop this violence where it starts
It's spreading through my body--
You never said "I'm sorry"
Stop the deaths
The bitter gunmen in the hall
They are inheriting our misfortune
Because we never say we're sorry
_________________________
We dealt the same cards
Time after time
With the same result to the
Very last time
And why should we expect
To get anything other
Than what we already have
_________________________
Okay, here's something else old:
This is the last page
Fill it as best you can
The man who knew too much
Knew when this page came
What did he do--
Knowing this is the last page?
_________________________
And this next thing is not nearly finished. And it needs more revision.
The message said, "Wish you were here now
"It's the busiest of times,
"But I'm taking these few moments to write
"Like I told you I would
"And you know my word is good--
"Even without a promise"
Oh, how I wish . . . oh
How I wish
As you signed your name
That I could have been there
~To hold you hand
Fleeting life is precious, my friend
Never do we know
{This barrier comes to take}
Our grasp away
Oh, how I wish!
Oh, how I wish!
It was me there--not you.~
No response was planned
For you were coming home then
And I didn't know then
What now compels me to fill
All of these pages
With undecipherable, red writing
That will never heal
Your wounded sister, will never return
Your soul
~To hold you hand
Fleeting life is precious, my friend
Never do we know
{This barrier comes to take}
Our grasp away
Oh, how I wish!
Oh, how I wish!
It was me there--not you.~
And I will not wait until Saturday
To try understanding
What sewn faces can never say
And why the unspeakable happened today
Oh, how I wish . . . oh
How I wish
When God heard your name
He had a different plan
Oh, how I hate . . . Oh,
How I hate!
Time and distance
Heartbeats and breathing
What they will separate
And all they have canceled
We'll start with something probably a year and a half old? The rest are probably only a couple months old at most.
_________________________
~I think I said this before
I don't want to hear these conversations anymore
Continual forgiveness of a reacurring sin
Is weighing on my heart {My heart, oh so thin}
My hands are tied
This forgiveness bind me to
Forget what I thought of you
_________________________
Had you been there
{Waiting for the smile,
Reassurance.}
Under my window where your shadow
Should be standing--
Then you would know
_________________________
In the beginning I was created
And now I'm allowing
Myself to become
Outdated
_________________________
Oh, anonomous answer website
Do you ever feel wrong
In always doing what is right?
_________________________
Stop this pain
Stop this violence where it starts
It's spreading through my body--
You never said "I'm sorry"
Stop the deaths
The bitter gunmen in the hall
They are inheriting our misfortune
Because we never say we're sorry
_________________________
We dealt the same cards
Time after time
With the same result to the
Very last time
And why should we expect
To get anything other
Than what we already have
_________________________
Okay, here's something else old:
This is the last page
Fill it as best you can
The man who knew too much
Knew when this page came
What did he do--
Knowing this is the last page?
_________________________
And this next thing is not nearly finished. And it needs more revision.
The message said, "Wish you were here now
"It's the busiest of times,
"But I'm taking these few moments to write
"Like I told you I would
"And you know my word is good--
"Even without a promise"
Oh, how I wish . . . oh
How I wish
As you signed your name
That I could have been there
~To hold you hand
Fleeting life is precious, my friend
Never do we know
{This barrier comes to take}
Our grasp away
Oh, how I wish!
Oh, how I wish!
It was me there--not you.~
No response was planned
For you were coming home then
And I didn't know then
What now compels me to fill
All of these pages
With undecipherable, red writing
That will never heal
Your wounded sister, will never return
Your soul
~To hold you hand
Fleeting life is precious, my friend
Never do we know
{This barrier comes to take}
Our grasp away
Oh, how I wish!
Oh, how I wish!
It was me there--not you.~
And I will not wait until Saturday
To try understanding
What sewn faces can never say
And why the unspeakable happened today
Oh, how I wish . . . oh
How I wish
When God heard your name
He had a different plan
Oh, how I hate . . . Oh,
How I hate!
Time and distance
Heartbeats and breathing
What they will separate
And all they have canceled
Friday, August 8, 2008
I met Hare Krishna at a Water Park
So, I went to the water park today. Originally, my friend Heather and I were going to a different one, but then it turned out no one else was and we decided on a less expensive option. We finished swimming around the same time as a large group of kids—thirty something. They were gathering in the parking lot as Heather and I waited for her sister to arrive, and we noticed their shirts said “Krishna” on the front, circled by smaller words. After a couple minutes of mingling by us they moved towards their vehicles on the other side of the parking lot. Now, I had been sitting there, thinking I should talk to them, but was too shy/afraid to approach someone. I was going to leave it be, but Heather said “that’s sad.” I asked her, and she meant that it was like a huge youth group event for them . . . but it was false. So, I asked her if we should go over there and talk to them and she said sure. Since I went to Dare2Share in February I knew kind of how I would talk to them.
We approached a girl and I asked her what Krishna was. She started to answer and then grabbed one of her friends, who in turn grabbed another. They said he was God, opalescent and everything good—that they learn like 72 different qualities. One girl said “but there are like 400” and another said, “No, there isn’t. He just only told us that many.” That’s what the small words were around the word Krishna. Stuff like “strength of the strong,” “intelligence of the intelligent.” By this time there was a small semi-circle in front of the two of us. Not long after a mother came over and started talking with me.
One of the first things I asked is if there was a beginning or end to their God, and they said no. They began to say how it is hard for our minds to comprehend that since we are limited to time, and I said that I believe God has no beginning or end. They were still kind of talking about the qualities of Krishna, but somehow the subject got on how one needs to give love to God. When I asked if it was because he loved us, the kids said yes. From this point on it was pretty much just the mom and I talking back and forth and some of the kids even left the little crowd who was listening. She said something that implied life before life on earth and I asked if that meant that they existed before they were born here, and she said yes. That they were beings in what was very hard to understand as her description of heaven, with God (Krishna.)
She said that Krishna created the earth for us . . . and we have some inward desire to experience the things that happen here. This part was rather vague. But what they were not vague about was that when they came in contact with “matter” they were stained, blemished and now had to earn the way back into “heaven.” I specifically asked if we had to earn the way, and she said yes. Basically, humans re-incarnate until they reach that certain state in which they give the unselfish, unconditional love enough to God and everyone else enough.
When she mentioned about how the earth began, I said how Christianity says that God created us to be with him, but when we sinned it separates us from him. She did not really interrupt me at this point. Once she said they had to be “good enough” I asked what they believe about Jesus. She said that he was a great “Devotee.” Here I said “Well, what about his claim to be Christ, the Son of God?” At this point she started getting more tense and frustrated, but not quite angry. Here she said how all of us are “sons of God” and began talking about how there are “different levels of knowledge.” I asked here what about the statement “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man comes to the Father, but through me.” And she really didn’t like this. She said that he was talking to the people in the crowd. And that he was a great Devotee, and went on the say how they have Devotees who disciple people who come down in a perfect line of disciples. When I said how Jesus died for the sins of mankind, so they could be forgiven she said that was the one major point wrong with Christianity—that how can you confess something and then keep doing it? Instead, she said, you have someone who helps you become more loving and unselfish. One of those disciple, Devotee people, like the kind that leads their services.
She also did not really answer when I asked, “So, if we’ve come in contact with matter and we are just completely lost, how can we ever get better or good enough?” She just kept saying it takes lots and lots of practice. Whenever I brought up Bible verses she said how there are the “different levels of understanding” and I asked if their sort of “Bible” was the highest level, she wouldn’t say that it was, just that there were different levels. This was her way of excusing Jesus claiming to be the way.
And on this note, it’s good to mention that when I asked if they believed if the God of Christianity, Buddah, Krishna etcetera are the same, she said they are not, they are just different titles for the one God. Yes, they are monotheistic. The way she said that Jesus was not really the way and that the gods are all just different names for one God makes it seem that if you end up at the perfect loving state you will get to “heaven” regardless of how you got there. After all, there is no need for forgiveness according to this, so why would there need to be one way?
I used to wonder how so many different religions have come into the world, but hearing more about Hare Krishna I realized that there is so much similar to the truth, but then the tiniest—yet most important things—will be just slightly different, making everything skewed. When we started finishing our conversation because they were leaving soon one of the girls gave us these tiny little cookies which Heather said tasted like Macadamia. They were so sweet that I ate mine very slowly. They also gave us home made banana nut bread, which I loved. Then they had to leave, so the lady asked for my phone number and I said how about e-mail address because that would work better. So, we exchanged e-mail addresses, and her name is Premananda.
I decided I want to avoid having phone conversations at all cost because then I have time to think, talk with my youth pastor, mom and dad, and pray before I respond. And just now, googling her e-mail address I found out that she must have a relatively high standing position in their community because her e-mail was at the bottom of one of the web pages to contact if attending a certain event.
All of this took place in slightly less than 20 minutes. After the fact Heather said she wouldn’t have known what to say, but I am extremely grateful that she was there. Because it was so good having someone by my side and without her I wouldn’t have gone over there at all. I would have ignored that urge. So, thank the one true God for friends. And thank God for the series they’ve been doing at church, because a lot of the stuff I said was stuff I just heard in the past two weeks! And thank God for Dare2Share because I wouldn’t have had a clue on how to approach them or speak with them. Dare2Share taught me how to show my respect and care for people while talking with them, and how to un-abrasively communicate through questions rather than talking at someone.
Well, thank you for reading all that! I just had to write it down really quick tonight before I forgot anything, so sorry if anything is confusing. And prayers are always appreciated. =]
Friday, August 08, 2008
We approached a girl and I asked her what Krishna was. She started to answer and then grabbed one of her friends, who in turn grabbed another. They said he was God, opalescent and everything good—that they learn like 72 different qualities. One girl said “but there are like 400” and another said, “No, there isn’t. He just only told us that many.” That’s what the small words were around the word Krishna. Stuff like “strength of the strong,” “intelligence of the intelligent.” By this time there was a small semi-circle in front of the two of us. Not long after a mother came over and started talking with me.
One of the first things I asked is if there was a beginning or end to their God, and they said no. They began to say how it is hard for our minds to comprehend that since we are limited to time, and I said that I believe God has no beginning or end. They were still kind of talking about the qualities of Krishna, but somehow the subject got on how one needs to give love to God. When I asked if it was because he loved us, the kids said yes. From this point on it was pretty much just the mom and I talking back and forth and some of the kids even left the little crowd who was listening. She said something that implied life before life on earth and I asked if that meant that they existed before they were born here, and she said yes. That they were beings in what was very hard to understand as her description of heaven, with God (Krishna.)
She said that Krishna created the earth for us . . . and we have some inward desire to experience the things that happen here. This part was rather vague. But what they were not vague about was that when they came in contact with “matter” they were stained, blemished and now had to earn the way back into “heaven.” I specifically asked if we had to earn the way, and she said yes. Basically, humans re-incarnate until they reach that certain state in which they give the unselfish, unconditional love enough to God and everyone else enough.
When she mentioned about how the earth began, I said how Christianity says that God created us to be with him, but when we sinned it separates us from him. She did not really interrupt me at this point. Once she said they had to be “good enough” I asked what they believe about Jesus. She said that he was a great “Devotee.” Here I said “Well, what about his claim to be Christ, the Son of God?” At this point she started getting more tense and frustrated, but not quite angry. Here she said how all of us are “sons of God” and began talking about how there are “different levels of knowledge.” I asked here what about the statement “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man comes to the Father, but through me.” And she really didn’t like this. She said that he was talking to the people in the crowd. And that he was a great Devotee, and went on the say how they have Devotees who disciple people who come down in a perfect line of disciples. When I said how Jesus died for the sins of mankind, so they could be forgiven she said that was the one major point wrong with Christianity—that how can you confess something and then keep doing it? Instead, she said, you have someone who helps you become more loving and unselfish. One of those disciple, Devotee people, like the kind that leads their services.
She also did not really answer when I asked, “So, if we’ve come in contact with matter and we are just completely lost, how can we ever get better or good enough?” She just kept saying it takes lots and lots of practice. Whenever I brought up Bible verses she said how there are the “different levels of understanding” and I asked if their sort of “Bible” was the highest level, she wouldn’t say that it was, just that there were different levels. This was her way of excusing Jesus claiming to be the way.
And on this note, it’s good to mention that when I asked if they believed if the God of Christianity, Buddah, Krishna etcetera are the same, she said they are not, they are just different titles for the one God. Yes, they are monotheistic. The way she said that Jesus was not really the way and that the gods are all just different names for one God makes it seem that if you end up at the perfect loving state you will get to “heaven” regardless of how you got there. After all, there is no need for forgiveness according to this, so why would there need to be one way?
I used to wonder how so many different religions have come into the world, but hearing more about Hare Krishna I realized that there is so much similar to the truth, but then the tiniest—yet most important things—will be just slightly different, making everything skewed. When we started finishing our conversation because they were leaving soon one of the girls gave us these tiny little cookies which Heather said tasted like Macadamia. They were so sweet that I ate mine very slowly. They also gave us home made banana nut bread, which I loved. Then they had to leave, so the lady asked for my phone number and I said how about e-mail address because that would work better. So, we exchanged e-mail addresses, and her name is Premananda.
I decided I want to avoid having phone conversations at all cost because then I have time to think, talk with my youth pastor, mom and dad, and pray before I respond. And just now, googling her e-mail address I found out that she must have a relatively high standing position in their community because her e-mail was at the bottom of one of the web pages to contact if attending a certain event.
All of this took place in slightly less than 20 minutes. After the fact Heather said she wouldn’t have known what to say, but I am extremely grateful that she was there. Because it was so good having someone by my side and without her I wouldn’t have gone over there at all. I would have ignored that urge. So, thank the one true God for friends. And thank God for the series they’ve been doing at church, because a lot of the stuff I said was stuff I just heard in the past two weeks! And thank God for Dare2Share because I wouldn’t have had a clue on how to approach them or speak with them. Dare2Share taught me how to show my respect and care for people while talking with them, and how to un-abrasively communicate through questions rather than talking at someone.
Well, thank you for reading all that! I just had to write it down really quick tonight before I forgot anything, so sorry if anything is confusing. And prayers are always appreciated. =]
Friday, August 08, 2008
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Toothpaste and the Little Boat that went Too Far
I myself, being who I am, take questions about myself very seriously. Like the classic one man on the jury who insists on covering all the evidence in order to serve a proper judgement, I weigh out my words, carefully formulating an answer in my mind. I re-word it several times, and then finally put it to paper {or keyboard.} Now, when it comes to things like mission's trip applications, there is no exception to this behavior. Even when I go to fill it out a *second* time. That's right, one sweaty, brain wracking, 2-hour form filling marathon wasn't enough. But it seems to me it wasn't chance that my form was misplaced, because I need to learn something.
I decided to jump right in and knock the thing out. You see, I have this pleasant memory that works something like this: I deliberate and rehash so much that if I have to write it again, I can do so almost verbatim. It came in handy that time our computer crashed in eigth grade with my first draft of a memoir. Bingo! I re-wrote it.
So, in re-filling this form about what I expect to happen, my previous mission trip experience, and my relationship with Christ, my problem wasn't remembering the content, it was the content itself. {Which I had actually borrowed from something I wrote before} Trush is, the time I described where I go for "weeks without really reading my Bible"was taking place right then. And the constant communication was more like "intermittent chatter." Not that I'm not crazy about God, but ruts are so easily dug, and so terribly difficult to pull oneself out of.
As I was brushing my teeth I was thinking over how much I love being close to God, but also how much I am addicted to a lukewarm, depression-prone state of existence. And that whole "I do what I don't want to do, but I sadly do want to do, actually" Paul thing. {Romans 7:18-21} However, that is a different topic. Anyway, there I was covered in toothpaste--nearly--and I started making excuses; telling God how "the stuff I wrote on the form isn't so far off because I'm pretty much a good person. I know everyone sins, but I'm not that horrible . . ." And here I'd hear that small voice say how all sins are equal and I said, "but, I try. Aside from the inescapable sin, I'm a pretty good person, the kind people don't mind their teens being friends with . . ."
And I went on, ignoring for about a minute before I stopped brushing my teeth and stared at my toothpaste-fringed face and said, "Oh my gosh." It struck me I'm not a "good person." There is no "aside from the . . ." Because as good as I think I am, I haven't really been trying to actively seek God, or read my Bible. And even if I was, that would never make me "good enough" to take a break. I didn't jump off the deep end, but my boat has been drifting out to sea, content with the long, long rope coiled in the bottom of the boat, attached to the dock. I forgot that even with a rope, the further out you drift, the bigger the waves get. And with the rope keeping my boat from capsiding, I had the nerve to say I was pretty good with the oars!
So, right now I'm a bit shock with my lack of behavior, and am perfectly content to say I am terrible at rowing. There is no excuse for me to live lukewarm--especially not that I am "good." And if I hadn't already shoved the toothpaste tube in my silly mouth, I would have shoved the Bible because this is where I opened up to read when I went back into my room: Romans 3. I'm sure this was no accident because the commentary on verse 24 was like swallowing another tube of toothpaste--the pleasant, minty kind though.
I'm positive we're all familiar with this passage. In particular the part that says "all have sinned and fallen short." {v 23} The whole chapter expounds on that thought. We're just not "good" people--"There is none righteous, no, not one." {v 10} And I'm glad I don't have to be a "good" person to be accepted and loved by God. Because as strong-willed as I am, I would never make it.
So, God, I want to take this oportunity to thank You for all You've done for me, my friends, and people everywhere. Please help me not to take it for granted, but to remember and act on my thankfullness by seeking You and sharing You with those around me. I know I need Your strength to do this, so thank You in advance. Amen.
I decided to jump right in and knock the thing out. You see, I have this pleasant memory that works something like this: I deliberate and rehash so much that if I have to write it again, I can do so almost verbatim. It came in handy that time our computer crashed in eigth grade with my first draft of a memoir. Bingo! I re-wrote it.
So, in re-filling this form about what I expect to happen, my previous mission trip experience, and my relationship with Christ, my problem wasn't remembering the content, it was the content itself. {Which I had actually borrowed from something I wrote before} Trush is, the time I described where I go for "weeks without really reading my Bible"was taking place right then. And the constant communication was more like "intermittent chatter." Not that I'm not crazy about God, but ruts are so easily dug, and so terribly difficult to pull oneself out of.
As I was brushing my teeth I was thinking over how much I love being close to God, but also how much I am addicted to a lukewarm, depression-prone state of existence. And that whole "I do what I don't want to do, but I sadly do want to do, actually" Paul thing. {Romans 7:18-21} However, that is a different topic. Anyway, there I was covered in toothpaste--nearly--and I started making excuses; telling God how "the stuff I wrote on the form isn't so far off because I'm pretty much a good person. I know everyone sins, but I'm not that horrible . . ." And here I'd hear that small voice say how all sins are equal and I said, "but, I try. Aside from the inescapable sin, I'm a pretty good person, the kind people don't mind their teens being friends with . . ."
And I went on, ignoring for about a minute before I stopped brushing my teeth and stared at my toothpaste-fringed face and said, "Oh my gosh." It struck me I'm not a "good person." There is no "aside from the . . ." Because as good as I think I am, I haven't really been trying to actively seek God, or read my Bible. And even if I was, that would never make me "good enough" to take a break. I didn't jump off the deep end, but my boat has been drifting out to sea, content with the long, long rope coiled in the bottom of the boat, attached to the dock. I forgot that even with a rope, the further out you drift, the bigger the waves get. And with the rope keeping my boat from capsiding, I had the nerve to say I was pretty good with the oars!
So, right now I'm a bit shock with my lack of behavior, and am perfectly content to say I am terrible at rowing. There is no excuse for me to live lukewarm--especially not that I am "good." And if I hadn't already shoved the toothpaste tube in my silly mouth, I would have shoved the Bible because this is where I opened up to read when I went back into my room: Romans 3. I'm sure this was no accident because the commentary on verse 24 was like swallowing another tube of toothpaste--the pleasant, minty kind though.
I'm positive we're all familiar with this passage. In particular the part that says "all have sinned and fallen short." {v 23} The whole chapter expounds on that thought. We're just not "good" people--"There is none righteous, no, not one." {v 10} And I'm glad I don't have to be a "good" person to be accepted and loved by God. Because as strong-willed as I am, I would never make it.
So, God, I want to take this oportunity to thank You for all You've done for me, my friends, and people everywhere. Please help me not to take it for granted, but to remember and act on my thankfullness by seeking You and sharing You with those around me. I know I need Your strength to do this, so thank You in advance. Amen.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
{Part 2} Untitled Short Story
I'm guessing you mean this sentence, "She hoped it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience for me to wait for them to return?" I was undecided whether or not to use a question mark for that kind of imbedded dialogue. So, I think I'll change it to a period. ^_^ Thanks.
Well, here goes part two. I think the story as a whole turned out decently for being thought of and written in twenty-four hours. Though I secretely wish my sister had written it, because then it would have turned out much better.
p.s. In all the story is nearly four full pages with regular margins in a word doc.
___________________________________________
One day after Mrs. Clemine was replaced, the whole school had half the day off so our teachers could attend a Mental Health and Positive Attitude seminar. But I wasn’t out and about rejoicing in my temporary freedom like most of the kids. Instead, I sat at home in my tiny little room, in the tiny little apartment Mom had worked so hard to provide for the two of us. Homework could not hold my attention, so I slipped into the kitchen looking for something to eat. Mom had made stroganoff for lunch, but it sounded distasteful to me just then. Even though I knew she wouldn’t be home until dinnertime, I opted for a muffin instead.
“I hate muffins,” I said aloud. Surely, any adult would criticize me for practicing telling lies when it is so important to ones future to practice telling the truth. Of course, they had not done what I had done. I had the strangest feeling I could risk it, even though I didn’t want to. Perhaps it was simply the possibility that I could—and get away with it—that made me crave it. Me and the muffin made our way to the couch and I sat down, untouched muffin in hand. The majority of the student body secretly held to the belief that our teachers wanted us out of school today so we could witness the possible passing of a bill that would affect every one of our lives. While I didn’t want to be part of the System, no one knew how much the Supreme Court’s decision really would affect me if it passed.
I still felt slightly euphoric with what I had said moments before. As much as this troubled me I felt myself losing grasp of the grievance. There was no reason why I should act this way, but I felt myself invariably drawn to. This way I could get back at the people who value honesty so much they no longer trust my truthfulness. After all, I’ve done exactly what everyone wants so far: I haven’t been sent to the Principal’s office, gotten detention, or any other sort of demerits. Why have they no reason to believe my words?
That’s exactly what I thought earlier in the day. In preparation for future work we had all been associated with the Registers. The technology has been upgraded numerous times, and each time the machine has come out small and cleaner until it reached the school standard size which vaguely resembled a tissue box. Our teacher instructed us on how to hook up the machine and then told us to either say something true or contradictory, and then view the reading. A group of my friends all decided we would say something contradictory and aim for a certain emotion on the monitor.
My turn came and I said something contradictory to how I felt, looking for the red light and reading. Instead, it showed the same line it had present when I wasn’t saying anything: eerily similar to a heartbeat of a man in great distress. The presiding teacher began swiftly disconnecting me from the Register and said detachedly, “That’s interesting, I never knew that about you,” then immediately began instructing the next kid. I started to say perhaps I wasn’t hooked up right, or “Sir, something is wrong with your expensive machine,” but instead I walked over to my friends feeling a strange mixture fear and exhilaration.
“Hey, what’s up? Why didn’t you show red like we said we were gonna? Chickened out, huh?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled.
On the way home I tried to clear my head, but it didn’t work. I was in the same state when I arrived home. My chest was constricting, and a single thought kept pounding through my head again and again. “But it wasn’t true . . . it wasn’t, why didn’t someone tell me I was wrong?” Bitterness, my dear friend, began to take hold of me. Bitterness as strong as the kind which ravaged me whenever I thought of my father and how he left; when any memory or thing reminded me of him. I clenched my jaw and distracted myself from crying by walking back into the kitchen for a napkin. I still hadn’t touched the muffin.
“I hate you,” I whispered under my breath. “Darn you, psychiatrists and busybodies. You never knew what I felt!” I was talking out loud now. “Were you so pre-occupied when you asked how I felt about my dad leaving? Or was I so good at acting, or did you care so little that you believed what wasn’t true?” Fiery, angry tears fell now. “It wasn’t true . . . and as long as you tell me I’m right that’s what I’ll be, and you’ll never have to know.”
I won’t,” I took a breath, put on a serene composure and continued, “ever make that mistake again. Because you will only ever here what you want to hear.” I flicked on the television and stared blankly at the news headline declaring the Supreme Court’s daring decision necessitating the use of personal Registers. “I hate you,” I said, still gazing, and took a bite of the muffin.
~
By now the doctors should be back. However, either something has delayed them they find it amusing to shirk their duties. I have quite recovered from my emotional outburst nearly two weeks ago, and I’ve learned a lot since then. A lot about what I am. To some extent the Movement seems to be working. Society is weeding out the “bad” from the “good” with all these laws. Be sure your sin will find you out—they are. I have realized this, and I don’t want to get in trouble with the Movement. I want to remain out of their files—a free mind. This has become impossible, since everyone is on file; I merely want to stay in the Approved section. And so far so good. I am learning to control every aspect of my composure, and when they get what they want to hear, they will never know how false it is. Because their own creation will blind them.
I have my reasons for this: I want my freedom. The freedom to make mistakes . . . This is my reason and everyone has one for either opposing or supporting the Movement. Small, fragile families with toddlers pushed for Registers among banking officials to protect their budding investments. Filthy, old misers pushed for their use among the agriculture industry and the volunteers in their community to ensure their free food was nutritious and un-poisoned. Animal Rights advocates made sure they were found in pet stores for the use of both customer and supplier.
Yet, among all the apparent improvement, selfish motives pushed the use of this technology supposed to force out the good in people. Perhaps they were all afraid, and believed if others behaved more purely, than it would be easier for themselves. Despite their efforts to “create a better society,” they have only created an environment which holds evil intentions for me.
Stirred from my internal reverie, momentarily, I saw that the doctors had returned and the nurse had called my number. White paper covered the check-up table where they beckoned me sit. “This will only take a minute,” the doctor said, taking my personal Register from my hand. “Are you right or left handed? “Right,” I responded. Stealthily, the nurse gave me a shot for the pain as the doctor began installing my death sentence. I couldn’t help but wish she had forgotten . . . and let me feel the pain—however miniscule it would be with all their high-tech equipment. Let me feel it, because I know I will cause more pain to people than these few minutes could ever cause me. I heard the doctor say, “All done, now that was painless, huh?” and I looked up at him for the first time. He resembled my father. How fitting.
I slipped down from the table, feeling chilled. But warmth would do me no good; the cold is inside me. We heat our homes in the winter to keep from getting cold, thus breaking down our immune systems. And in doing so we create an environment where pathogenic bacteria can flourish. Within our rush to exclude it, we create a home for our evils.
The nurse outside offered me a glass of water and a muffin. I took the water and said, “No thank you, I hate muffins.” She smiled politely, and retreated. I went on my way, the Register still continuing its deathly dance.
Well, here goes part two. I think the story as a whole turned out decently for being thought of and written in twenty-four hours. Though I secretely wish my sister had written it, because then it would have turned out much better.
p.s. In all the story is nearly four full pages with regular margins in a word doc.
___________________________________________
One day after Mrs. Clemine was replaced, the whole school had half the day off so our teachers could attend a Mental Health and Positive Attitude seminar. But I wasn’t out and about rejoicing in my temporary freedom like most of the kids. Instead, I sat at home in my tiny little room, in the tiny little apartment Mom had worked so hard to provide for the two of us. Homework could not hold my attention, so I slipped into the kitchen looking for something to eat. Mom had made stroganoff for lunch, but it sounded distasteful to me just then. Even though I knew she wouldn’t be home until dinnertime, I opted for a muffin instead.
“I hate muffins,” I said aloud. Surely, any adult would criticize me for practicing telling lies when it is so important to ones future to practice telling the truth. Of course, they had not done what I had done. I had the strangest feeling I could risk it, even though I didn’t want to. Perhaps it was simply the possibility that I could—and get away with it—that made me crave it. Me and the muffin made our way to the couch and I sat down, untouched muffin in hand. The majority of the student body secretly held to the belief that our teachers wanted us out of school today so we could witness the possible passing of a bill that would affect every one of our lives. While I didn’t want to be part of the System, no one knew how much the Supreme Court’s decision really would affect me if it passed.
I still felt slightly euphoric with what I had said moments before. As much as this troubled me I felt myself losing grasp of the grievance. There was no reason why I should act this way, but I felt myself invariably drawn to. This way I could get back at the people who value honesty so much they no longer trust my truthfulness. After all, I’ve done exactly what everyone wants so far: I haven’t been sent to the Principal’s office, gotten detention, or any other sort of demerits. Why have they no reason to believe my words?
That’s exactly what I thought earlier in the day. In preparation for future work we had all been associated with the Registers. The technology has been upgraded numerous times, and each time the machine has come out small and cleaner until it reached the school standard size which vaguely resembled a tissue box. Our teacher instructed us on how to hook up the machine and then told us to either say something true or contradictory, and then view the reading. A group of my friends all decided we would say something contradictory and aim for a certain emotion on the monitor.
My turn came and I said something contradictory to how I felt, looking for the red light and reading. Instead, it showed the same line it had present when I wasn’t saying anything: eerily similar to a heartbeat of a man in great distress. The presiding teacher began swiftly disconnecting me from the Register and said detachedly, “That’s interesting, I never knew that about you,” then immediately began instructing the next kid. I started to say perhaps I wasn’t hooked up right, or “Sir, something is wrong with your expensive machine,” but instead I walked over to my friends feeling a strange mixture fear and exhilaration.
“Hey, what’s up? Why didn’t you show red like we said we were gonna? Chickened out, huh?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled.
On the way home I tried to clear my head, but it didn’t work. I was in the same state when I arrived home. My chest was constricting, and a single thought kept pounding through my head again and again. “But it wasn’t true . . . it wasn’t, why didn’t someone tell me I was wrong?” Bitterness, my dear friend, began to take hold of me. Bitterness as strong as the kind which ravaged me whenever I thought of my father and how he left; when any memory or thing reminded me of him. I clenched my jaw and distracted myself from crying by walking back into the kitchen for a napkin. I still hadn’t touched the muffin.
“I hate you,” I whispered under my breath. “Darn you, psychiatrists and busybodies. You never knew what I felt!” I was talking out loud now. “Were you so pre-occupied when you asked how I felt about my dad leaving? Or was I so good at acting, or did you care so little that you believed what wasn’t true?” Fiery, angry tears fell now. “It wasn’t true . . . and as long as you tell me I’m right that’s what I’ll be, and you’ll never have to know.”
I won’t,” I took a breath, put on a serene composure and continued, “ever make that mistake again. Because you will only ever here what you want to hear.” I flicked on the television and stared blankly at the news headline declaring the Supreme Court’s daring decision necessitating the use of personal Registers. “I hate you,” I said, still gazing, and took a bite of the muffin.
~
By now the doctors should be back. However, either something has delayed them they find it amusing to shirk their duties. I have quite recovered from my emotional outburst nearly two weeks ago, and I’ve learned a lot since then. A lot about what I am. To some extent the Movement seems to be working. Society is weeding out the “bad” from the “good” with all these laws. Be sure your sin will find you out—they are. I have realized this, and I don’t want to get in trouble with the Movement. I want to remain out of their files—a free mind. This has become impossible, since everyone is on file; I merely want to stay in the Approved section. And so far so good. I am learning to control every aspect of my composure, and when they get what they want to hear, they will never know how false it is. Because their own creation will blind them.
I have my reasons for this: I want my freedom. The freedom to make mistakes . . . This is my reason and everyone has one for either opposing or supporting the Movement. Small, fragile families with toddlers pushed for Registers among banking officials to protect their budding investments. Filthy, old misers pushed for their use among the agriculture industry and the volunteers in their community to ensure their free food was nutritious and un-poisoned. Animal Rights advocates made sure they were found in pet stores for the use of both customer and supplier.
Yet, among all the apparent improvement, selfish motives pushed the use of this technology supposed to force out the good in people. Perhaps they were all afraid, and believed if others behaved more purely, than it would be easier for themselves. Despite their efforts to “create a better society,” they have only created an environment which holds evil intentions for me.
Stirred from my internal reverie, momentarily, I saw that the doctors had returned and the nurse had called my number. White paper covered the check-up table where they beckoned me sit. “This will only take a minute,” the doctor said, taking my personal Register from my hand. “Are you right or left handed? “Right,” I responded. Stealthily, the nurse gave me a shot for the pain as the doctor began installing my death sentence. I couldn’t help but wish she had forgotten . . . and let me feel the pain—however miniscule it would be with all their high-tech equipment. Let me feel it, because I know I will cause more pain to people than these few minutes could ever cause me. I heard the doctor say, “All done, now that was painless, huh?” and I looked up at him for the first time. He resembled my father. How fitting.
I slipped down from the table, feeling chilled. But warmth would do me no good; the cold is inside me. We heat our homes in the winter to keep from getting cold, thus breaking down our immune systems. And in doing so we create an environment where pathogenic bacteria can flourish. Within our rush to exclude it, we create a home for our evils.
The nurse outside offered me a glass of water and a muffin. I took the water and said, “No thank you, I hate muffins.” She smiled politely, and retreated. I went on my way, the Register still continuing its deathly dance.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Dear Encyclopedia
Dear Encyclopedia,
I am writing you to say
I have a few corrections for your
Entry on my name
To save you from a lawyers suit
Kindly tell the truth {Yes, kindly tell the truth}
I’ll try to be objective, so
Forgive me if I fail
A lover’s triangle cannot exist
If never love did
I know you go for drama and flair
Thus, I am sorry to disappoint
But I won’t be placed where
My heart is at the breaking point
Please leave your suspicions at the typewriter
Take your ink-stained fingers and leave your mark
Where there is an impressionable heart
On the record, mine is encased
In glass that’s double-paned
Second, I’m quite offended by the
Paragraph in section two
That says I fought for something
I most assuredly never tried to
I’m content to command that you
Take your matchmakers elsewhere
Or light a match and burn this page
I won’t stand by and read about my life
And find myself surprised at what’s inside
Dear Encyclopedia,
I am writing you to say
I will not take revenge
But will you kindly clear my name
{Yes, kindly clear my name}
I am writing you to say
I have a few corrections for your
Entry on my name
To save you from a lawyers suit
Kindly tell the truth {Yes, kindly tell the truth}
I’ll try to be objective, so
Forgive me if I fail
A lover’s triangle cannot exist
If never love did
I know you go for drama and flair
Thus, I am sorry to disappoint
But I won’t be placed where
My heart is at the breaking point
Please leave your suspicions at the typewriter
Take your ink-stained fingers and leave your mark
Where there is an impressionable heart
On the record, mine is encased
In glass that’s double-paned
Second, I’m quite offended by the
Paragraph in section two
That says I fought for something
I most assuredly never tried to
I’m content to command that you
Take your matchmakers elsewhere
Or light a match and burn this page
I won’t stand by and read about my life
And find myself surprised at what’s inside
Dear Encyclopedia,
I am writing you to say
I will not take revenge
But will you kindly clear my name
{Yes, kindly clear my name}
Untitled Short Story {Part 1}
Well. For some reason I got this interesting idea in my head last night. Hopefully, the end result is interesting. I've never written fiction just for fun, but here goes. It's actually kind of Science Fiction--NO, that does not mean I have aliens and strange planets--just it's set when things are a bit different in the world. Also, I haven't finished it yet. This is a page and a half. I've written two pages, and I expect it shouldn't be much longer than three pages in all. I've read through it once and edited it a bit, but I made need to change/add more depending on what I write later. Also, please let me know of any contradictions--I already found one. ;]
The receptionist looked up. “Number 1-8-8-2.” I stepped forward, crossing the yellow waiting line almost completely obscured by black scuffmarks. Her phone was ringing, but she ignored it. “Here you go. Take this and this, and move onto the room marked ‘Fitting,’” she said, handing me a small, disheveled stack of papers and the Thing I had only seen on television up to now. It fit neatly in the palm of my hand. They were right; it was virtually weightless. And icy cold. I followed her direction and headed toward the room.
~
Honestly, I don’t remember precisely when I came to the realization—it just occurred to me once that I understood, and that I didn’t want to be part of the System, whether it is beneficial or not. What emotion or reasoning drove that desire, I do not know. Which side was I on, I could not say—for or against?
People say they love what is happening, but at the same time people worry so much nowadays—what with all those children’s courts where teachers are sued for attempting to repress Expression. It was just two weeks ago my rich classmate took our English teacher to court for incorrectly Registering. Mrs. Clemine told him it was an “Excellent answer.” However, she had been thinking, “And I’ll bet you cheated on that, too. You lousy excuse for an eighth grader.” We have a new teacher now because she lost her job as well as her ability to work without a Register, or even outside the System.
But that doesn’t mean much . . . at least according to what I’ve been hearing on the news, and they can’t lie. You can’t actually see their Registers, but off-camera every broadcast is monitored. Still, I wonder. If they report something that someone else researched for them, and they don’t know it is wrong, then it’s right isn’t it? According the their standards it is, because they broadcast it in all honesty. They would be honestly mistaken. But back to what they have been reporting. They have been reporting that slowly and surely occupations are joining the System. Polls are showing that the general population prefers businesses that “value honesty.” Riots and strikes are also on the new now, though, and in alarming frequency.
~
I’d been waiting a good ten minutes outside the door the pre-occupied receptionist had mentioned, when another out of breath receptionist decided to tell me—and the restless line forming behind me—that there had been a mistake. Evidently, they managed to miss the phone call letting them know the doctors were on lunch break. She hoped it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience for me to wait for them to return? I told her I would wait the remaining fifteen minutes or so. Behind me a middle-aged man swore. Only minutes before he had been complaining, in loud tones, to a nervous young man several people behind himself. “Sure, they’re doing this for our benefit. It benefits everyone when I’m late for work and the costumers pile up. It will benefit everyone when I’m uncomfortable and can’t keep focus because of this,” he suppressed obscenities, “idiotic little contraption.” The young man just made an attempt at nodding understandingly, unsure if that was the correct response, but it didn’t matter. Mr. Grumpy had been interrupted by the receptionist and had already found another ear to complain to, this time about the Anti-Hate and Slander phone surveillance policy. As head of the local Women’s Bowling League, the Ear was sympathetic. “It tried again and again, I did, to explain to the surveillance man on duty that it wasn’t gossip. I had no intention of persuading Louise to drop her partner, really. And then he threatened to turn me in to some society or other. I think he’s just a bigot.”
Although the group of people here with me today have been called in by their address, I thankfully don’t recognize any of these bothersome people. That may be the only upside to living in a crowded apartment. Close proximity tends to breed a desire for anonymity, so I only know a few of our neighbors, only one of them being a fellow eighth grader.
Try as I might, I couldn’t seem to focus on the information packet I had been handled, and the absence of a staple made it difficult to leaf through. So, I turned my attention to the little Thing in my hand. Which, somehow, had managed to sweat profusely, though the silver surface seemed to absorb heat. Dull and charcoal colored, the blank screen stared back at me. I wondered what it would look like when activated. Still, I knew it wouldn’t make a difference. It would never show red for me.
*Insert Interesting Title Here*
The receptionist looked up. “Number 1-8-8-2.” I stepped forward, crossing the yellow waiting line almost completely obscured by black scuffmarks. Her phone was ringing, but she ignored it. “Here you go. Take this and this, and move onto the room marked ‘Fitting,’” she said, handing me a small, disheveled stack of papers and the Thing I had only seen on television up to now. It fit neatly in the palm of my hand. They were right; it was virtually weightless. And icy cold. I followed her direction and headed toward the room.
~
Honestly, I don’t remember precisely when I came to the realization—it just occurred to me once that I understood, and that I didn’t want to be part of the System, whether it is beneficial or not. What emotion or reasoning drove that desire, I do not know. Which side was I on, I could not say—for or against?
People say they love what is happening, but at the same time people worry so much nowadays—what with all those children’s courts where teachers are sued for attempting to repress Expression. It was just two weeks ago my rich classmate took our English teacher to court for incorrectly Registering. Mrs. Clemine told him it was an “Excellent answer.” However, she had been thinking, “And I’ll bet you cheated on that, too. You lousy excuse for an eighth grader.” We have a new teacher now because she lost her job as well as her ability to work without a Register, or even outside the System.
But that doesn’t mean much . . . at least according to what I’ve been hearing on the news, and they can’t lie. You can’t actually see their Registers, but off-camera every broadcast is monitored. Still, I wonder. If they report something that someone else researched for them, and they don’t know it is wrong, then it’s right isn’t it? According the their standards it is, because they broadcast it in all honesty. They would be honestly mistaken. But back to what they have been reporting. They have been reporting that slowly and surely occupations are joining the System. Polls are showing that the general population prefers businesses that “value honesty.” Riots and strikes are also on the new now, though, and in alarming frequency.
~
I’d been waiting a good ten minutes outside the door the pre-occupied receptionist had mentioned, when another out of breath receptionist decided to tell me—and the restless line forming behind me—that there had been a mistake. Evidently, they managed to miss the phone call letting them know the doctors were on lunch break. She hoped it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience for me to wait for them to return? I told her I would wait the remaining fifteen minutes or so. Behind me a middle-aged man swore. Only minutes before he had been complaining, in loud tones, to a nervous young man several people behind himself. “Sure, they’re doing this for our benefit. It benefits everyone when I’m late for work and the costumers pile up. It will benefit everyone when I’m uncomfortable and can’t keep focus because of this,” he suppressed obscenities, “idiotic little contraption.” The young man just made an attempt at nodding understandingly, unsure if that was the correct response, but it didn’t matter. Mr. Grumpy had been interrupted by the receptionist and had already found another ear to complain to, this time about the Anti-Hate and Slander phone surveillance policy. As head of the local Women’s Bowling League, the Ear was sympathetic. “It tried again and again, I did, to explain to the surveillance man on duty that it wasn’t gossip. I had no intention of persuading Louise to drop her partner, really. And then he threatened to turn me in to some society or other. I think he’s just a bigot.”
Although the group of people here with me today have been called in by their address, I thankfully don’t recognize any of these bothersome people. That may be the only upside to living in a crowded apartment. Close proximity tends to breed a desire for anonymity, so I only know a few of our neighbors, only one of them being a fellow eighth grader.
Try as I might, I couldn’t seem to focus on the information packet I had been handled, and the absence of a staple made it difficult to leaf through. So, I turned my attention to the little Thing in my hand. Which, somehow, had managed to sweat profusely, though the silver surface seemed to absorb heat. Dull and charcoal colored, the blank screen stared back at me. I wondered what it would look like when activated. Still, I knew it wouldn’t make a difference. It would never show red for me.
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