hello again
I bought a digital alarm clock a few weeks ago at a second hand store, because my parents wake me up fifteen mintutes before I have to go, and I never have time to get ready. The clock keeps time, and the radio in it works well, but the alarm feature doesn't work. So it did nothing to solve my problem
I'm glad because it gives me an excuse to get one of the solely mechanical ones that you have to wind and have actual bells on them, like the ones that I saw the other day.
I'd rather still have one of those one's with the flipping numbers like in Groundhog Day, but I haven't seen any of those around.
6.10.08
4.10.08
hello again
I saw something today I wanted to put on my blog.
It wasn't the shard of a vinyl record that I picked up off the side of the road when I was on my lunchbreak.
It wasn't that part of the label was left on it, that any writing had worn off of it, nor that the weathering had faded the rich turquoise label into a variety of jewel tones that set off against the shiny black lacquer of the record marvelously.
It wasn't the mother pushing her child in the cart across the parking lot, pushing faster and faster until she had enough momentum to lift her feet onto the rack underneath and ride on her momentum.
It wasn't that I smiled warmly at her and met her glance.
It wasn't that she smiled back.
It wasn't that I hate obligations.
It wasn't the perturbed look that you get in response these days as you look people steadfastly in the eye as you pass them down the sidewalk.
Nor was it the man who came through my checkout today; he was young, probably in his mid-twenties, and he came through with his wife and his young kid.
It wasn't the greyish-brownish blazer he had on that was just like one that I would wear or the grey shirt underneath, like I've been looking for for the past while: the long sleeved, but thin cotton like a t-shirt and buttons at the collar, but isn't a polo, and looks good under a blazer, but yet you can take it off and scrunch up the sleeves and look more nonchalent.
It wasn't the ring on his finger that I saw as rifled he through his wallet looking for his reward points card, the ring which was classy looking, with an intricate yet tasteful crest.
And it wasn't that on his head he sported a worn out Coca-Cola hat, grey, with the brandname on the front in those white cursive-esque characters, as if left over from working for the company years ago. Just like the one I'd wanted for years.
What it was was something very clever and profound, but not complex. Something that gave an an impression of deep and contented wonder. But I can't remember what it was for the life of me.
I saw something today I wanted to put on my blog.
It wasn't the shard of a vinyl record that I picked up off the side of the road when I was on my lunchbreak.
It wasn't that part of the label was left on it, that any writing had worn off of it, nor that the weathering had faded the rich turquoise label into a variety of jewel tones that set off against the shiny black lacquer of the record marvelously.
It wasn't the mother pushing her child in the cart across the parking lot, pushing faster and faster until she had enough momentum to lift her feet onto the rack underneath and ride on her momentum.
It wasn't that I smiled warmly at her and met her glance.
It wasn't that she smiled back.
It wasn't that I hate obligations.
It wasn't the perturbed look that you get in response these days as you look people steadfastly in the eye as you pass them down the sidewalk.
Nor was it the man who came through my checkout today; he was young, probably in his mid-twenties, and he came through with his wife and his young kid.
It wasn't the greyish-brownish blazer he had on that was just like one that I would wear or the grey shirt underneath, like I've been looking for for the past while: the long sleeved, but thin cotton like a t-shirt and buttons at the collar, but isn't a polo, and looks good under a blazer, but yet you can take it off and scrunch up the sleeves and look more nonchalent.
It wasn't the ring on his finger that I saw as rifled he through his wallet looking for his reward points card, the ring which was classy looking, with an intricate yet tasteful crest.
And it wasn't that on his head he sported a worn out Coca-Cola hat, grey, with the brandname on the front in those white cursive-esque characters, as if left over from working for the company years ago. Just like the one I'd wanted for years.
What it was was something very clever and profound, but not complex. Something that gave an an impression of deep and contented wonder. But I can't remember what it was for the life of me.
2.10.08
Monday
hello again
On Monday I happened to be walking up by my old school on my way to a used book store and down the street towards me came a fellow who at first seemed truly unremarkable.
He wore a White Yankees Cap with the iconic black stripes and the brim perfectly flattened and worn slightly ajar. He wore a grey sweatshirt with white symbols all over it that formed a pattern, it was two sized too large. quintessential baggy pants the onlooker to see more of drawers of the subject than their footwear. I'd seen hundreds of guys like this at my high school over the year, of every creed and size. This one -as most are in my area- was Caucasian, he was averagely tall, averagely stocky, with light brown hair in the short style favored by the group one would associate him with.
The first thing that struck me about him was that he was smiling, not sneering, not smirking in smug defiance, but instead he wore a wide genuine grin. This was unusual, but not unprecedented. He was by himself, not in a pack of seemingly like minded people, with his head held high as he walked down the incline of the street. But he was missing a shoe.
One foot was clod in a Lugz workboot, but the other strod right alongside down the sidewalk in only a white sock. There was no shamble, no hopping, and no sheepish look appeared on his face as we passed by one another. It was as if he didn't even know.
That was monday, and nothing more interesting has happened to me since, but now I have my laptop back after a month, so I can update a bit more readily.
On Monday I happened to be walking up by my old school on my way to a used book store and down the street towards me came a fellow who at first seemed truly unremarkable.
He wore a White Yankees Cap with the iconic black stripes and the brim perfectly flattened and worn slightly ajar. He wore a grey sweatshirt with white symbols all over it that formed a pattern, it was two sized too large. quintessential baggy pants the onlooker to see more of drawers of the subject than their footwear. I'd seen hundreds of guys like this at my high school over the year, of every creed and size. This one -as most are in my area- was Caucasian, he was averagely tall, averagely stocky, with light brown hair in the short style favored by the group one would associate him with.
The first thing that struck me about him was that he was smiling, not sneering, not smirking in smug defiance, but instead he wore a wide genuine grin. This was unusual, but not unprecedented. He was by himself, not in a pack of seemingly like minded people, with his head held high as he walked down the incline of the street. But he was missing a shoe.
One foot was clod in a Lugz workboot, but the other strod right alongside down the sidewalk in only a white sock. There was no shamble, no hopping, and no sheepish look appeared on his face as we passed by one another. It was as if he didn't even know.
That was monday, and nothing more interesting has happened to me since, but now I have my laptop back after a month, so I can update a bit more readily.
28.9.08
hello again
Because my father's a pastor there are a wealth of people in the world who think they know me, but I wouldn't know from a hole in the wall.
Over the past few years the question of my life plan has crept into the forced conversations that they often intrude upon me, and I'm in turn obliged to satiate their volley of feigned social intrigue.
So they ask where I'm studying.
I tell them I at UNBSJ, to which they give little more then an understanding nod, because UNBSJ really isn't very prestigious (I say this not as a slight on the faculty, many of which I respect and admire, but that any high school graduate can get in, and result in any student intellectuals wading through a mire of people who ought to go to community college, but instead will fail their way through university and dilute the value of academia; and will reuslt in the whole lot of us not getting good jobs and the people smart enought to go into trades making off like bandit; but I digress)
Then they ask what program I'm in; to which I reply "Arts", and elaborating by listing a few courses if they pretend to be especially interested.
And then they follow up with the worst question of all: "And where do you think that will take you?"
I fade off at this point into a haze of uncertainty, claiming that I'm not sure yet, but mentioning Law as a possibility or maybe Teaching.
In reality I don't have much interest in either of those occupations after thinking them through.
I'll elaborate on my genuine aspirations later though, because the point of all this for now is that when people ask me what I intend to do after university I'm just going to tell them that I'm considering becoming Batman.
Because my father's a pastor there are a wealth of people in the world who think they know me, but I wouldn't know from a hole in the wall.
Over the past few years the question of my life plan has crept into the forced conversations that they often intrude upon me, and I'm in turn obliged to satiate their volley of feigned social intrigue.
So they ask where I'm studying.
I tell them I at UNBSJ, to which they give little more then an understanding nod, because UNBSJ really isn't very prestigious (I say this not as a slight on the faculty, many of which I respect and admire, but that any high school graduate can get in, and result in any student intellectuals wading through a mire of people who ought to go to community college, but instead will fail their way through university and dilute the value of academia; and will reuslt in the whole lot of us not getting good jobs and the people smart enought to go into trades making off like bandit; but I digress)
Then they ask what program I'm in; to which I reply "Arts", and elaborating by listing a few courses if they pretend to be especially interested.
And then they follow up with the worst question of all: "And where do you think that will take you?"
I fade off at this point into a haze of uncertainty, claiming that I'm not sure yet, but mentioning Law as a possibility or maybe Teaching.
In reality I don't have much interest in either of those occupations after thinking them through.
I'll elaborate on my genuine aspirations later though, because the point of all this for now is that when people ask me what I intend to do after university I'm just going to tell them that I'm considering becoming Batman.
26.9.08
25.9.08
hello again
Whever I looked at people I try to peg them.
As who I think they try to be, as who I think they don't want to be seen as.
I know enough to know that people are more complicated then that. Everyone lives a lifetime.
Everyone wants, everyone goes without, everyone tries to be something more. When I walk through a crowded room, or better yet through a surging corridor, it often occurs to me the marvel that every one of them has a soul. Every one of them is looking for an assurance that they're not really alone. Every one of them must think around those lines.
And yet how many of them are really happy.
I can't be the only one marvelled by that. I lose sight of it all the time myself. I try to finish people's sentences under my breath before they themselves can gather the words. I pretend that I'm better then them. That I know more and feel more.
But doesn't everyone feel exalted by their own, readily accessible, perspective? Or is it just me that stares at a classroom of younger students and looks for some anolog of myself. I look for someone staring past everything.
I've never found one.
At the end of the day I've only made myself clever enough to recognize the bitter irony of my life, bored enogh to dismiss good people, and myself wish all the girls that catch my eye were as lonely as me.
Whever I looked at people I try to peg them.
As who I think they try to be, as who I think they don't want to be seen as.
I know enough to know that people are more complicated then that. Everyone lives a lifetime.
Everyone wants, everyone goes without, everyone tries to be something more. When I walk through a crowded room, or better yet through a surging corridor, it often occurs to me the marvel that every one of them has a soul. Every one of them is looking for an assurance that they're not really alone. Every one of them must think around those lines.
And yet how many of them are really happy.
I can't be the only one marvelled by that. I lose sight of it all the time myself. I try to finish people's sentences under my breath before they themselves can gather the words. I pretend that I'm better then them. That I know more and feel more.
But doesn't everyone feel exalted by their own, readily accessible, perspective? Or is it just me that stares at a classroom of younger students and looks for some anolog of myself. I look for someone staring past everything.
I've never found one.
At the end of the day I've only made myself clever enough to recognize the bitter irony of my life, bored enogh to dismiss good people, and myself wish all the girls that catch my eye were as lonely as me.
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