WTF

I found one day that I had completely forgotten how to read. Unfortunately, it was a problem that I knew had been encroaching upon the outskirts of my outer consciousness, like the shadow that slowly but surely begins its takeover of the sky. Reading was easy before; it was like walking, or breathing, or inhaling bacon strips three at a time. I never considered that one day the words would begin to tumble into each other, the sentences breaking off from their punctual anchors and drifting elsewhere on the page. I never once imagined that the words would come to taunt me so, beginning to phase into coherence and fading away just as quickly. I never allowed myself to think that all of it would leave me so quickly. 
I suppose I did know, somewhere in the recesses of my morbid imagination, that I would grow old and lose the comprehension that was once so sharp and simple. That the ideas, the metaphors, would slowly foop away into an apathetic greyness, along with my memory and physical vigor and tenacity. I knew all of that. But I guess I always assumed youth was a gift taken away slowly. Evidently not. 

A LACK OF STAGING

It wasn't what I expected. At the very least, I expected a stage. There wasn't one. Instead of a stage the performers danced and sang on a piece of wood dirtier than the floor around it. The lights are dim as you push a heavy wooden door open. You walk down a musty flight of stairs and you find yourself in a room that may have at one point been called a studio. Now it is half dressing room half performance space, lonely and forgotten with only a cracked vanity mirror, dark and lightless, to watch the theatricalities.

I watch the performers prepare with far too much hope. I want nothing more than to be blown away by power and strength and technique.

"Put that chair there."
"Sure."
"Thanks."
"No problem."

I return to my space to watch. The lights dim as a middle-aged woman takes center stage. She is beautiful, though something about her prevents me from truly believing her to be so. There is something in the high angle of her nose, the proud way she looks at her audience. There is in her eyes a drive to become something better, an intense nostalgia for some top note once hit on the better side of thirty. Her performance is very nearly good.

Next is a younger woman. Singing and dancing are new pursuits to her, and it shows in the way she carries herself. Her movements have none of the sharpness and vigor of the women standing beside her. She casts sidelong glances at the audience when she thinks no one is watching her, and she looks sillier for it. But she is beautiful. Unlike the woman before her, the beauty is there. It is self-evident. There is an honesty to her voice.

Finally, a duet. It is a song I already know, a song I love. I whoop and cheer as the two begin to sing. The first one is, also, very nearly good. She moves with a confidence and fluidity not easily found. But the second. Oh god, the second. My enthusiasm dies with her pitch.

"I need you to strike that chair."
"During intermission?"
"Right after. When the house lights are down."
"Will do."
"Thanks."
"No problem."

I am disappointed. I wanted so much to be in the presence of those far beyond my reach. I wanted to be dwarfed in power and strength and technique and experience. I found none of those things that night in the studio-dressing room beneath the musty stairs.

"It's ten. You ought to get going."
"Is there anything else I can help with?"
"No, we should be okay."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
"Alright. Have a good night."
"Good night. See you on Friday."
"Thanks."
"No problem."

I walk up the musty stairs and push the heavy wooden door in the opposite direction. Cheap music, cheap light; they litter the street. I turn around to see the building I came out of. I am again disappointed: it has not become the Apollo Theatre. A dirty wooden sign with the letters "TMS" painted in black letters hung on a peg above the door, behind which I could still hear voices, proud of their owners' musical progress. I turn around once more. Cars veer across the street, becoming blurs of metal. There is chaos here, larger than me, larger than any life. I close my eyes and step out onto the world, so that it might take me.

BLUE SUIT

They told me evil was the skull.

They told me evil was

The glowing eye,

The smoking mouth.

To be sure,

A caricature.

Evil, they told me,

Is the thing hiding behind black cloaks,

Plotting and scheming. 

Because the plotters

And the schemers

Are always the evil ones.

Always, also, dark. Always so dark. 

I wonder, though, if instead of skulls and snakes and vampires,

If evil is the man in the clean blue suit,

Drinking straight whiskey on the rocks.

If evil,

True evil,

Is just the shadow
Of another person, only too bored to care. 

AIMLESS

I was listening to the Beatles one Sunday morning when the world seemed to upend itself on my cigarette. I had been trying to quit it for a while at that point. The Beatles, that is. What, did you think I meant the cigarettes? No, no. The cigarettes are a necessity. To cut those out would be the metaphorical equivalent of castration. Or seppuku. Only not quite as rational as either of those things. Because when you cut your balls off or slice open your insides, you've inevitably got some pretty good reasons for doing so: either you want to sing notes too high for a normal person or you want to preserve your honor in the face of imminent death. But quitting smoking? That's just a bad idea. There are no high notes or ritualistic self-sacrifices in quitting smoking. I mean, I could understand quitting alcohol. That's just plain expensive. What is it, ten bucks a bottle? And that's for the bad stuff. If you want to be a really good alcoholic you're going to need to be making some serious bank to fund yourself. But  carton of smokes is, like, two bucks. You get to be dirt poor and find evanescent meaning in life at the same time, and all for the price of two(-ish) dollars! Besides, I've found that being rich isn't all that great anyway. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. I used to be pretty rich, don't cha know. I rolled in the BIG BUCKS. Like, I was student council president and athlete of the year in high school, even though it was the most annoying thing I've ever done. And then, at this other place called Yale, I had to deal with the most pretentious people you've ever met in your life. Dear god, the way they'd go on about being future leaders of the world or whatever. I left that place ASAP, and then I worked for this bank or whatever. But then I quit, even though I made some serious dough. Don't look at me like that. It was SO UNBELIEVABLY BORING.  Seriously, it was like spending the day washing a Prius for some fat tourist that wanted his windows cleaned with rat tears. So now I'm here. And I'm free. Come to think of it, I really only started smoking after I quit that stupid job. So I guess it was a good thing I quit; I wouldn't have found out about these little babies if I hadn't.
Wow. I went on a tangent. Let me get back to what I started with. I remember when the world flipped over 'cause, it was the most I'd thought in a while. The cigs do a pretty good job of covering me up on the "emotions and thoughts" fronts, but once in a while they break through anyway. And so one day I was listening to the Beatles one Sunday afternoon when the world just kind of flipped. Like, just completely turned over. Like, my bedsheets were floating from the ceiling and the lights glared at me from the floor and I just sat there, thinking. I thought about the fact that this was the first time I had thought in a while, and I thought about my mom, and my dad, and those phonies from Yale. I thought about cigarettes. I thought about alcohol. I thought that my tiny little life hadn't turned out the way I had thought it would. But then again, I guess I didn't really know what I expected.

1337

Y teh Interwebz shud b free, by xxeLFwArRioRxx_81.

teh Interwebz nvr was urs to control
n00bz, teh internets r fr33 4all
and wen u try 2 take it dwn
u will b pwned
by teh 1337 skilz
of the pplz.
ANONS will find u
and pwn u so hard,
ur cred will all wash away
Nd ull be left with nuthing

*(@&#^&^!
&#@&#%^!
@#&^%er
%)&#ker
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U ARNT WELCM HERE

BLOOD

I create my own madness.
It swirls about the ether of my wanton imagination, and settles as I drift.

I drift, willing dimming eyes to an invisible light
That shines through wintry windows.

Those windows are frosted now;
God traded the sun for dead ice.

The ice seems colder than usual,
And on my twisted throne, so do I.

I long for war,
The heat of it, the brutal glory.

Blood, though, in all of its humanity,
Is not the spring I seek.

BOSS

Watch the way he lies;
The way he won't look you in the eyes.

Sometimes, I wander about,
Searching, searching and I end up starting to shout.
Because nothing seems to turn up,
And no one seems to care.
I wanted such a little thing
But he says that's not fair.

I one time took a coffee break,
A minute or two long to shake
The cobwebs out my head.
Then he turned up,
Red and fuming ears.
He told me to get back to work,
Because wouldn't stand to watch me shirk
My duties.
My intern duties.

In short, I'd like to say,
Because of all the times in a single day
My boss's soul
Is like a giant a-hole.

DECRESCENDO

Quiet. Not a whisper of breath, no. Nothing.

The boy had been coming here for as long as he could remember, and yet not a thing had changed. At times he found it bit strange, the way that the number of rocks alongside the banks of the silent pond never seemed to dwindle: regardless of the long, contented hours he spent with the other kids skipping stones across the surface of the blue-green portal to Poseidon, the rocks always seemed to refill themselves, as though replaced by smirking nymphs.

He spent his days quietly walking around the forest in which the camp was found, wandering from tree to lurching tree, feeling in his ears and feet the way the leaves and twigs would crunch underneath his weight. Above him the sunlight wafted through the shattered, shifting openings in between branches, throwing shafts of broken light upon the roughshod path over which he walked. He found a flowing peace within these moments, which was broken only by physical memory of recent bruises. Whenever his injuries pained him he shuddered, not from the pain, but from the memories of broken whiskey bottles and his sisters' wide, terrified eyes. His visited them once in a while, but they didn't seem to want him around. It would have been fine if they simply hadn't wanted to talk; he would have been more than content to sit by them and simply watch the sun rise and fall. But whenever he visited them they just screamed.  "He's here! He's here! Get him away!"they would screech, the same terrified look in their eyes. Usually the the old man in white coat would kindly ask him to leave at that point, and usually he would go. Once, he tried to force his sisters to recognize him, and when he got too close one of them threw a glass of water at him. It shattered across his cheek, and as the old man in the white coat dragged him out of the room, he heard them scream "You'll never hurt us again!"with an air of triumphant pride. As a pretty nurse stitched his cheek back together the boy stared, frozen with terror, at the mirror across the room; his father glared from out of the mirror with an expression of dark anger. The pretty nurse smiled at him.
"Why, aren't you just the bravest thing! Not a tear out of you!"
He trembled.

At night the older kids would huddle the younger ones around the campfire and tell stories. He found most of them dull, but the one older girl always kept him spellbound. She would sit, legs crossed, and take a deep breath. Her lips opened and closed, and he saw the old stories, streaking through his mind like Olympic runners. As she spoke, her eyes, sparking and blazing, reflected the light of the fire before her .Entire worlds faded, until there was nothing left for the boy words and the mist that seemed, cloaked the girl's figure. He returned to his cabin each night, filled with wonder and awe, to replay the tales. He put himself in the sandals of the great heroes, as theirs were always the most interesting. Their humble beginnings, the ways they rose to strength, and their inevitable failures, they were his. And in his fevered imaginings he changed the courses of rivers as beautiful goddesses beset him, instructing him to find winged sandals and mirrored shields in the crooks of ancient olive trees. Imaginings turned into dreams, and his dreams faded into his vision. On lonely nights he entered the space between wakefulness and sleep, and there bright figures wielding spears and thunderbolts would laugh, drinking from goblets that smelled of spring and rebirth. These half-dreams never stayed with him, and the only evidence he ever had of their existence was a nostalgic pang. Then he would sigh, and walk out into the forest.

The days and nights began to merge into seamless continuation. The boy slept less, preferring instead to spend his nights on the lookout for passing nymphs and dryads. Though he would have gladly spent his nights outside, searching, a counselor caught him out at midnight and ordered him back into his cabin. He did it again and an older camper was put into his cabin to keep him inside. When the boy asked him what his name was he had shyly responded with "Kevin". The boy didn't mind Kevin too much; Kevin never bothered him, and after a few mornings where Kevin had woken up and found the boy missing, the two came to a sort of understanding: the boy would be free to leave as long as he left a note and the sun had risen. The boy and Kevin talked once in a while, though Kevin always seemed a bit afraid to speak to him.

The boy slept only when he felt as though his heart would stop. When he did allow himself to close his eyes in rest he always did so outside, by the base of some tree, as far away from the campgrounds as he could walk before collapsing. After waking up he would walk back to the camp, listen to the girl with the sparking eyes, and return to his cabin, where he would spend the night within himself.

One day he saw them. This time he was sure it was no trick of the imagination; he had just woken from a deep sleep. He was by his favorite tree, far away from camp. It was dark; the sun had long since gone down. Before him stood a smiling woman. She was beyond beautiful, but unearthly. Her skin was a pale, pale green: the color of leaves reborn in the spring. Her eyes, like wine grapes, was a deep purple. Her hair, brown and yellow, was threaded with slender vines and pale, pink flowers. She was naked. She smiled at him, and disappeared into the foliage. Stunned, the boy sat by the tree by which he had fallen asleep, completely silent. Then with a rush of energy he sprinted into the woods.

He ran for hours. Every once in a while the figure would appear in the corner of his eye, smiling and coy, and the boy would renew his vigor. Each time she appeared, he came closer and closer to her. Eventually, she came so close that the boy jumped, in the manner of a football tackle, towards the figure. If his brain had had the time to react, it might have had time to create despair as the dryad disappeared. The boy fell.

They found him there, hours later, eye and brain pierced by a particularly large branch. His blood was barely visible beneath the autumn leaves that buried him.

It is quiet. Not a whisper.

'BUT'

A teacher of mine once told me that his favorite word was 'but'. He said that there was no word more economical: no word that for so few letters could accomplish so much, and with such subtlety. With three letters it could contradict pages and pages worth of sentences; like multiplying by zero, it had the effect of turning everything that came before it into a blank, meaningless nothing. It seems, sometimes, that that single word has the power to destroy everything that has ever been. History, mathematics, science, all it can be wiped clean by the cliffhanger created by an unpunctuated sentence ending with 'but'.

If there is any single axiomatic turn of phrase that the children of the twenty-first century can parrot mindlessly, it is that with great power comes great responsibility. So why do we toss it around like it's nothing more than a conjunction? Why are we so freely able to take this negation, this ultimate cancellation of reality and physics, and place it into whatever we choose? Do we not understand the power that it wields?

"You're great, but..."
"Everyone's important, but..."
"Oh, Jeffrey! You are an absolute star of an individual, and for you I would pluck the stars from their seats. But... (name of other romantic interest implied here)"

'But' complicates. And my postmodern sense of self longs not for more disorder within the wasteland that is our modern cultural heritage, but for a method by which we may connect the dots of our insanity and madness and delusion, and by so doing make some sense of the darkness through which we crawl. But hey, who am I?

THE INTELLECTUAL

Two undergraduate philosophy majors, SOREN and THOMAS, sit at a table in some Mid-western restaurant, sipping coffee. They are discussing opposing political ideals. 

SOREN: … the varying results of which indicate that we must strongly consider-

WAITER: Hey, guys. All done with those coffees?

THOMAS (irritated): Yes.

SOREN: Could I get another Americano?

THOMAS: And an espresso for me.

WAITER: Sure thing.

SOREN: Anyway, as I was saying: we come to the inevitable conclusion that a capitalistic, representative democracy is the best form of government that exists. The future doesn’t lie in the discovery of new schools of thought, but in improving a system that, though admittedly flawed, possesses the potential to create realistic amounts of good in each individual’s life.

THOMAS: Unfortunately, Soren, your thought appears to be marred by the age-old adage of “it’s the best we’ve got, and so we’ll make do”, even though it is clear that the promises of capitalistic democracy are crumbling around us as we speak. Capitalism assumes a near-inexhaustible amount of natural resources, and a working democracy assumes an intelligently individualistic population. The future of humanity must exist within the improvement of humankind from the inside so that we may work under a superior form of government.

SOREN (sarcastically): What, are you proposing a communist revolution?

THOMAS: I don’t eliminate options that haven’t been properly tried.

SOREN: Thomas, nothing about communism makes any sense.

THOMAS: That is a statement that cannot be qualified. It’s never been properly done before.

SOREN: It’s been “done” by half the third world. And look at how that turned out.

THOMAS: Yes, under the leadership of a corrupt, foreign government.

SOREN: Communism inevitably leads to corruption.

THOMAS: Only when those in power become corrupt.

SOREN: You’ll be hard-pressed to discover a single person that is incorruptible.

THOMAS: Exactly. Thus, my earlier point. Our goal should not be to improve a flawed system but to improve ourselves so that we may adopt a superior system of governance.

SOREN: But-

WAITER: Here you go. An espresso and an Americano, right?

SOREN (irritated): Yes.

THOMAS: Thank you.

They both sip at their coffees.

SOREN: But regardless of efficiency, what you’re suggesting is undeniably autocracy. You can’t honestly imagine that an autocracy is better than a government of the people?

THOMAS: Why not?

SOREN: Because it takes away the people’s right to make decisions about their own lives. It makes a farce of free will.

THOMAS: Not if they willingly accept the change. Besides, the people as a general unit are incapable of making intelligent decisions for themselves. Why should they possess the power to change the world? Knowledge, not simple numbers, should be the key to power. In addition to that, can you honestly claim that that our American model of democracy is still a government of the people? The private sector has claimed too much ground and the last bastion of variability, the Internet, is this close to privatization.

SOREN broods, thinking for some time.

SOREN: Granted. Perhaps our modern democracy isn’t what it proclaims itself to be. But let’s look at economics. I don’t think anybody can deny that a stable economy is the basis for any kind of civilization.

THOMAS: Of course.

SOREN: And free market capitalism is the most efficient system of creating relative economic equality that exists to us. Though it may be brutal at times, it works. The market is an impartial judge. And interfering with that market creates macroeconomic disruptions. 

THOMAS: I agree.

SOREN: Then you will also agree, I imagine, that because autocratic governments have a very strong tendency towards intervention within the market to further political ends, said governments possess a tendency to be crippled by poor economies.

THOMAS thinks for a while.

THOMAS: Granted. But what about labor? You cannot deny that-

The waiter returns.

WAITER: Anything else you need?

SOREN: Check, please.

WAITER: You got it.

The waiter leaves.

THOMAS: I believe the working class should have more power. They’re more important than we give them credit for.

SOREN: I actually agree. Raising minimum wage is a fantastic way to attack current financial imbalances.

The waiter returns with the check.

WAITER: Here you go.

THOMAS and SOREN check their wallets and look up, panicked.  

THOMAS: Its thirty bucks. I only have ten. Can you spot me?

SOREN: I only have… five.

                                                          

THOMAS: Shit! How the hell are four coffees thirty bucks?

SOREN: Economy’s messed up, man. Minimum wage is off the charts.

SOREN: You have your phone on you?

THOMAS: I left it back in the dorm. It’s charging.

SOREN: I lost mine at that Alpha Pi party last week.

THOMAS: Fuck!

A frantic silence as SOREN and THOMAS dig through their pockets for change.

WAITER: You know, you guys might want to consider law school.

END SCENE

THE WAYS THAT MATTER

You know, my dad wasn't around much. He wasn't a deadbeat or anything, In fact, just the opposite. He almost worked himself to death. He spent everything, every hour, every drop of sweat and blood, to send me to school and to make sure that I never wanted for anything. But he wasn't around much. Always making sure that he was making enough to put me through boarding school and my sister through college. But he was never there. Not when it really mattered.

He wasn't there to teach me how to shave, or how to talk to girls. He was always off, “So that I could have more.” He wasn't there the first time I sang in front of an audience. He never taught me how to fight. For all of his hard work and effort, he never taught me how to be a man.

So I really have to thank you, infinitesimal bundle of flesh and bone and blood. That you for being trusting enough to place your faith, your trust, your life, into the hands of someone that doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. And to tell you the truth, I'm scared. I’m scared of messing up, And of letting you down. I’m scared of hating you, or you hating me.

You, like the trillions of lives that have been on this earth, have a rough journey ahead of you. Things will punch you, and kick you. Even more so when you barely have the sliver of breath you need to breathe. On top of that, even your old man is probably going to let you down sometimes. But if there is one promise I will make, it is this: trust me to be there, in all the ways that matter.

I love you.

THE LIAR

I hate summer vacation. I hate summer vacation because I have to leave my campus home. And leaving my campus home means leaving behind everything that ties me to reality. My early New England mornings, my solitary early morning weekend trips to Subway, my late weekend board game nights with friends, and my conversations about the ethics of robotic sexuality all disappear into memory, and I am left wondering, for three months, if I had imagined the past year. It means leaving behind the only place in my life in which I have been able to sign, with lasting ink, my name. I’ve never been in any one place for more than two years. The conclusion of my junior year at Loomis marks the end of my third. I love that place; no place could be better.

(That isn’t entirely true. It’s actually extraordinarily untrue. How could I ever deny the excitement the city brings? The moment Manhattan’s neon giants, outlined in phosphorescent light against the furtively dark night, peak over the horizon, my heart leaps. That place is magical. There’s an energy there that I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. It’s old yet new, sophisticated yet somehow idyllically charming. It’s unparalleled. Shanghai comes close, but it isn’t the same. What I’d give to be in Times Square now…)

I think one of my favorite parts of being at school is performing. I discovered that I truly loved performing here. People tell me I have a knack for singing. I don’t know if that’s true. All I know is that I’ve grown tremendously as a performer, and, as a result, a human being. Before I came to Loomis I was completely terrified of all social interaction. I was terrified of judgment, terrified of becoming a social outcast. So naturally, I became a social outcast. But then, in a terrific moment of reckless abandon, I started doing musical theatre. And it was there that I realized that I was a decent human being. And I had talents worthy of recognition. It made me comfortable in my own skin. It made me proud.

(Vain is a more accurate term. I put on a mask of modesty but I am the vainest peacock that there ever was. I subtly hum complex figures around the underclassmen; I speak thoughtfully of the principles of vocal technique around upperclassmen. And when any singer receives more credit than me, jealousy rises in my throat like floodwater. Whenever I hear other people sing I feel the compulsive need to break them down and hear every single aspect of their voice in order to find something to criticize. Their natural tone, their technique, their lyricism; in every aspect, I need to feel superior. The criticism doesn’t even need to be valid. If someone can hit notes that I can’t, or connect phrases more smoothly than I, I’ll even attack their personal character. I need the world around me to know that I have talent. I know, though, that what I have is nothing special.)

I am who I want to be. Of all that I have learned, of the many multitudes that reside within myself, I am my best self.

(I am a liar.)