Another three-day week of school complete, abscences and all excused, as well as a smashing weekend. With the help of my friend Zithromax, my symptoms have not fucking left me. Well, at least not completely. The whole fever deal is gone, but I'm still coughing like a maniac and as a result, my back muscles have turned to steel cables, completely restricting my otherwise rudimentary task of rotating.
Being home alone is nice. For five days, my parents left me, their fickle teenager, unattended while enjoying some hunting expedition in the middle of nowhere. What a bond of trust. I could've killed their dog, starved their cat, burned the house down or left it open for burglary, hosted my own rave complete with Jack Daniels and mentholated cigarettes, had unprotected sex, or driven their stick shift Mazda Miata around town, picking up chicks and dealing drugs!
But not this time. Unfortunately, I was still sick, and so I just hung out with Larkin a bunch, baking mahi mahi and vegetables, watching the international news channel, and getting pissed at my computer when it stopped working (I'm in Linux right now because of how much I fucking hate it when Blogger locks up in the middle of a post). Even without the raving, I had a lot of fun sitting around with techno blaring on our crappy home stereo, staring into space and sleeping. I don't get to do that enough these days, you know? Remember the time in your childhood when your life was so carefree, you could just sit around and play Rebel Assault 2 or Tie Fighter or Microsoft Motherfucking Flight Shitulator all day, stay up until five, and do it some more the next? You could just go out and play soccer, because you didn't have partial pneumonia and an assload of homework to do, and your back didn't feel like fucking fire? I'm beginning to feel like an old man.
And then again, I'm really just getting into the really good, nitty-gritty parts of life--the parts where I can feel emotion, write a poem, cook something more complicated than a grilled cheese sandwich, and, well, do anything but play Rebel Assault 2. It was a terrible game. I played things like that and EverQuest because no one loved me enough to drive me down to Montrose and take me to the fine arts museum, so I could see Starry Night and The Olive Trees or The Three Musicians. Now I'm beginning to figure this existance shit out.
Sunday, November 23, 2003
Sunday, November 16, 2003
I have no earthly idea as to how I survived this weekend. Despite a slight fever I still had and a pain in the ass dry cough, I picked my sorry, plague-ridden ass up on Friday and got on the bus to region weekend.
I probably shouldn't have been there. The aftermath is that I've still got the cough worse than ever (probably from trying to surpress it so much), a horrible pain in two parts of my back, a clogged up sinus cavity, and even clogged up fucking ears that really, really hurt. This is the seventh day I've been sick. I'm beginning to wish that the lungs had an ability to just vomit out all foreign substances so I wouldn't have to cough them up over a week's period. I'm sore all over from long, standing rehearsals. I've inhaled more menthol from bags of cough drops in the past two days than a four-pack-a-day smoker has inhaled from burning green leaves in a month. I've got an ugly little cold sore on the edge of my lip, which I really hope doesn't spread to my mouth.
That was the best region weekend I've ever been to. Up there in my tuxedo, internal body temperature of 108, beads of sweat making the ink in my music run, I realized I'd never sang better in my life. The Battle of Jericho was a fortissississimo of soul. I am quite sure Moses Hogan's ghost was in my lungs the whole time, killing off little microbes. After the roar of applause, the director (a genuine hardass) even made the Aaron Copland song sound incredible. I sang the last high note I will sing for quite awhile in that song: full voiced, and without my voice cracking. I hacked my brain out once we lost the stage's passionate atmosphere. But it was glorious.
*cough cough* I don't think I can go out with Larkin today. Damnit! How I hate to ruin plans!
I probably shouldn't have been there. The aftermath is that I've still got the cough worse than ever (probably from trying to surpress it so much), a horrible pain in two parts of my back, a clogged up sinus cavity, and even clogged up fucking ears that really, really hurt. This is the seventh day I've been sick. I'm beginning to wish that the lungs had an ability to just vomit out all foreign substances so I wouldn't have to cough them up over a week's period. I'm sore all over from long, standing rehearsals. I've inhaled more menthol from bags of cough drops in the past two days than a four-pack-a-day smoker has inhaled from burning green leaves in a month. I've got an ugly little cold sore on the edge of my lip, which I really hope doesn't spread to my mouth.
That was the best region weekend I've ever been to. Up there in my tuxedo, internal body temperature of 108, beads of sweat making the ink in my music run, I realized I'd never sang better in my life. The Battle of Jericho was a fortissississimo of soul. I am quite sure Moses Hogan's ghost was in my lungs the whole time, killing off little microbes. After the roar of applause, the director (a genuine hardass) even made the Aaron Copland song sound incredible. I sang the last high note I will sing for quite awhile in that song: full voiced, and without my voice cracking. I hacked my brain out once we lost the stage's passionate atmosphere. But it was glorious.
*cough cough* I don't think I can go out with Larkin today. Damnit! How I hate to ruin plans!
Friday, October 31, 2003
Lordy, it's been eons since I've had the time to update this thing. Between homework, miscellaneous choral activities, and spending every free moment with Larkin (who is, today, 18!), I've just had no free time to jot down what I do in my free time. Or something.
Region auditions were held last weekend at Nimitz HS in Aldine. Annoying and dissonant musical arrangement of some Walt Whitman poem in hand, I waltzed into the audition room with the unfriendly hall monitors with an uncharacteristic aura of confidence about me. I did allright. 22nd place, it turns out. I didn't advance to go do pre-area auditions, but I did make the mixed choir. Some people would shoot poisoned darts at me for this position.
HA! And considering I just opened the practice cd's PACKAGE the night before, I think I kicked some ass. Region weekend will be epic.
Choirboy junk aside, my life's been going well enough. There's all that stress that comes with staying up until pretty much forever to finish those damned physics labs, and trying to remember characters in Uncle Tom's Cabin besides Uncle Fucking Tom, and trying to remember what period it is.
School's a bitch. So is trying to sleep when the neighbors are always getting arrested, making the dead end street next to your house a very unpleasant place to be.
But it's not really bad. I lean towards the negative side of things when I say my life's been going well enough. Realistically, it's grand. I've got this little blue-haired duckling who has been following me around for the past seven and a half months, and I absolutely revel in taking care of her. To have someone to cook miso soup for, someone to buy coffee for, a cute little head to scratch, silken skin to touch, and all those other things I can never comfortably do for people because they are so unlike me -- is a beautiful thing. Larkin Dennis has changed my life, but more importantly, changed me. I am a better person for her love and friendship. I will never forget it. As the French novellist Marcel Proust once said, “Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.” And I am grateful eternally.
Region auditions were held last weekend at Nimitz HS in Aldine. Annoying and dissonant musical arrangement of some Walt Whitman poem in hand, I waltzed into the audition room with the unfriendly hall monitors with an uncharacteristic aura of confidence about me. I did allright. 22nd place, it turns out. I didn't advance to go do pre-area auditions, but I did make the mixed choir. Some people would shoot poisoned darts at me for this position.
HA! And considering I just opened the practice cd's PACKAGE the night before, I think I kicked some ass. Region weekend will be epic.
Choirboy junk aside, my life's been going well enough. There's all that stress that comes with staying up until pretty much forever to finish those damned physics labs, and trying to remember characters in Uncle Tom's Cabin besides Uncle Fucking Tom, and trying to remember what period it is.
School's a bitch. So is trying to sleep when the neighbors are always getting arrested, making the dead end street next to your house a very unpleasant place to be.
But it's not really bad. I lean towards the negative side of things when I say my life's been going well enough. Realistically, it's grand. I've got this little blue-haired duckling who has been following me around for the past seven and a half months, and I absolutely revel in taking care of her. To have someone to cook miso soup for, someone to buy coffee for, a cute little head to scratch, silken skin to touch, and all those other things I can never comfortably do for people because they are so unlike me -- is a beautiful thing. Larkin Dennis has changed my life, but more importantly, changed me. I am a better person for her love and friendship. I will never forget it. As the French novellist Marcel Proust once said, “Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.” And I am grateful eternally.
Sunday, October 19, 2003
The worker raised his razor-sharp weapon to the sky, a tiny clod of dirt plummeting towards the driveway, but not before being deflected by the worker's desperado-style, wide-brimmed hat. For a heroic instant, the twin blades he displayed seemed ready to harness a bolt of lightning from the sky. The worker's victim trembled at the cool, everpresent gusts of wind. Its skin was a pale, shimmering green. The electric tension in the air stopped time, and only the defiant warrior's next move could start it again.
John then stopped fucking around, and continued trimming the hedges.
-----
So today, I took the PSAT. Easier than the practice test even, which I took at 10:00 without knowing how to do it, and got a 200. I think I'll do well.
After sitting around on Rob's EverQuest account (despite my quitting, it's still a decent way to pass time), I finally got a call from Sterling, whose father once again requested my incredible power of labor for his lawnmowing business. I guess I'm just that awesome. He even said I'm good at trimming hedges - after all, I do take an aggressive stance towards the leafy bastards.
So once I cut up all those things, I tied all the long sticks together in several bundles, which took just about forever, and left me with a cut in my thumb and a BITCH of a poke in the eye. I'd forgotten my badass amber sunglasses today, and was jabbed in my already dysfunctional ocular organ by an obnoxious stick. It still hurts.
Two lawns after that made me 25 bucks today. No fortune as the 90 dollar day of death I experienced a few weeks ago, but not bad at all for cutting shit up and pushing self-propelled machines around. Besides, I like my hat.
After I got off from work, ate a bowl of chili and took a shower, I got to hang out with Larkin at Starbucks. Stressed out beyond what most humans find physically and mentally unbearable, these days, she not only has to deal with doing well in her senior year (Durio's physics class and Mrs.Schnell's mysterious grading system included), but the never-ending torment of her tyrannical father, the general hostility of her household, and the completion of applications and essays for more than 15 colleges. I admire the poor girl. My back would've broken a long time ago in her situation, yet my brilliant, spritely author goes on.
Observing these afflictions and injustices which really plague my chick, I immediately treated her to Starbucks so she could tell me of all that troubles her. I like listening to her tell me of her troubles; even the saddest stories make me happy to have her close to me. The confessions we exchange give me a sense of trust I've never felt so strongly in my life. What would we do without each other? I'd be playing Rob's EverQuest account all the time, probably.
John then stopped fucking around, and continued trimming the hedges.
-----
So today, I took the PSAT. Easier than the practice test even, which I took at 10:00 without knowing how to do it, and got a 200. I think I'll do well.
After sitting around on Rob's EverQuest account (despite my quitting, it's still a decent way to pass time), I finally got a call from Sterling, whose father once again requested my incredible power of labor for his lawnmowing business. I guess I'm just that awesome. He even said I'm good at trimming hedges - after all, I do take an aggressive stance towards the leafy bastards.
So once I cut up all those things, I tied all the long sticks together in several bundles, which took just about forever, and left me with a cut in my thumb and a BITCH of a poke in the eye. I'd forgotten my badass amber sunglasses today, and was jabbed in my already dysfunctional ocular organ by an obnoxious stick. It still hurts.
Two lawns after that made me 25 bucks today. No fortune as the 90 dollar day of death I experienced a few weeks ago, but not bad at all for cutting shit up and pushing self-propelled machines around. Besides, I like my hat.
After I got off from work, ate a bowl of chili and took a shower, I got to hang out with Larkin at Starbucks. Stressed out beyond what most humans find physically and mentally unbearable, these days, she not only has to deal with doing well in her senior year (Durio's physics class and Mrs.Schnell's mysterious grading system included), but the never-ending torment of her tyrannical father, the general hostility of her household, and the completion of applications and essays for more than 15 colleges. I admire the poor girl. My back would've broken a long time ago in her situation, yet my brilliant, spritely author goes on.
Observing these afflictions and injustices which really plague my chick, I immediately treated her to Starbucks so she could tell me of all that troubles her. I like listening to her tell me of her troubles; even the saddest stories make me happy to have her close to me. The confessions we exchange give me a sense of trust I've never felt so strongly in my life. What would we do without each other? I'd be playing Rob's EverQuest account all the time, probably.
I am Spaceman Spiff!
Zounds! You are the intrepid Spaceman Spiff, the engaging explorer ensconsed in an unending universe of exotic and evil extraterrestrials! You're brave, but you should give that dictionary a rest.
Which Calvin are YOU?
Zounds! You are the intrepid Spaceman Spiff, the engaging explorer ensconsed in an unending universe of exotic and evil extraterrestrials! You're brave, but you should give that dictionary a rest.
Which Calvin are YOU?
Tuesday, October 14, 2003
Monday, October 13, 2003
Just this past weekend, as I lay pondering not the creation of the universe, nor the physical laws of nature (for I'm pretty sure I've got the both of those figured out), I struck an epiphany regarding an even more interesting and infinitely more subjective concept. This thing I discovered revolves around one human idea: identity.
How, exactly, do we determine who we are? Do we really grow up being intimately familiar with all our characteristics, our personality traits, our social tendencies? Our reactions to pain, pleasure, or any stimulus, for that matter?
I don't think that's the case at all. If anything, our knowledge of our individuality is formed over a long period of time through interactions with not only our environment, but other people. Aren't our opinions of ourselves really just opinions? Based on what other people have told us in the past, or how they've responded to our actions? Perhaps we test people to see their initial reaction, and choose which style of interaction we like best, over the course of our entire lives. Ever changed your conversational habits (ex. stop quoting those damn Austin Powers movies, or quit being so sarcastic) to appeal to a stunning member of the opposite sex? Change your way of life to belong to a certain subculture? There you have it. It's almost like the person doesn't determine his or her way of interacting, but the surrounding environment does. And not by any of this peer pressure stuff either- a guy can grow up choosing to belong to whatever group he wants, provided he starts off showing the right personality traits. Look at Eminem.
How, exactly, do we determine who we are? Do we really grow up being intimately familiar with all our characteristics, our personality traits, our social tendencies? Our reactions to pain, pleasure, or any stimulus, for that matter?
I don't think that's the case at all. If anything, our knowledge of our individuality is formed over a long period of time through interactions with not only our environment, but other people. Aren't our opinions of ourselves really just opinions? Based on what other people have told us in the past, or how they've responded to our actions? Perhaps we test people to see their initial reaction, and choose which style of interaction we like best, over the course of our entire lives. Ever changed your conversational habits (ex. stop quoting those damn Austin Powers movies, or quit being so sarcastic) to appeal to a stunning member of the opposite sex? Change your way of life to belong to a certain subculture? There you have it. It's almost like the person doesn't determine his or her way of interacting, but the surrounding environment does. And not by any of this peer pressure stuff either- a guy can grow up choosing to belong to whatever group he wants, provided he starts off showing the right personality traits. Look at Eminem.