Light

I wrote a poem today, and I liked it enough that I thought I would post it here, seeing as otherwise most of you would never see it. Once again, I enjoy it when people tell me what they think the poem is about, and if anyone guesses it right I'll tell you.

Light.

The colors are dancing,
The light reflecting and refracting
As playfully it meets the water
racing on, never retracting.

Cool and clean, the water leaps
from rock to rock, and sings
as he bounds along his way; his quiet
song the talk of bards and kings.

Rushing forward, he comes to a plain
of slow moving land, and feels
to come, nearly, to stopping, where time
moves so quietly it seems to steal.

A wooded glade, a nearly small pond
Where peace and quiet abound
and everything moves slowly,
even tranquility resounds.

The water, though, can't be content
to stay and stay in that glade;
For water still is never clean,
but with such a wait turns a nasty shade.

Passing by the dam
that slows the water so,
he accelerates, exhilarated
to once more easily flow.

He continues his race, being joined now
by other waters, who follow the same course;
gaining speed and strength, they rush on,
following the way without remorse.

A moment before the plunge,
when the path falls away to leave water free,
affected by glade, by rocks, by dam
water is what he is, while the whole path he can see.

The colors are dancing
the light reflecting and refracting;
as playfully it meets the water,
he continues on, never retracting.


As an addendum, I didn't pay particular attention to punctuation, grammar, or capitalization, and mostly just focused on the affect that I wanted the words to have, or the sort of feel that I wanted to give to the poem. I hope you enjoyed!

Socially Backward

Fridays. Or Saturdays. Fridays and Saturdays. People, we need to rethink this. In the culture that I'm used to, getting married to the right person is given as much stress, maybe even more, than getting a good education, good job, or even a good TV set. So, I've come to an interesting question.

Why the heck do we wait until the end of the week for to go on dates?

I can honestly say that by the end of the week I am exhausted. Not necessarily physically, because if I get the right amount of sleep I have about the same amount of physical energy every day, but mentally and emotionally I have had it by the weekend. I find myself yearning for quiet, for peace, and for a couple of hours just to think about the week. Now, if you take this exhaustion and add to it the fact that most serious social activity happens at the end of the week, when I'm already drained, I suddenly become somewhat of a socially backward person.

If you don't believe me, ask my friends who see me early on in the morning. In the morning I'm a bright, happy fellow who is chipper almost to the point of annoyance. However, come eleven o'clock at night I get very introverted, and I talk little. It's almost like a Jekyll and Hyde transformation, only I don't need drugs for it.

The same is true. Monday I'm bubbly and happy, but come Friday I just wander around, acting like my brain isn't really attached anymore and like I simply don't know what to do with myself. Emotionally, I'm spent.

It may be that this is just a phase, but I've been thinking: if during a date is when you're supposed to be getting to know people, it's not very fair that people are getting to know the Friday/Saturday me and not the Monday/Tuesday me. So, I've come up with a socially backwards plan for dating.

Why not have one day in the middle of the week off and one day at the beginning of the week? You know, like have Sunday off of work and school, and have Wednesday or Thursday off as well. That way you get one day at the end as well as one day in the middle.

I wonder if anyone will ever think about implementing my idea. . .

Just Because

Every once and awhile I need to hear this, and the only person who ever proffers it is myself. So, I'm going to say this right here and now for anyone who needs it.

Stop it! Okay, just stop!

That's it.

Cookies!

I found the cookies. Yep, that's right, nothing will keep me and my stomache from becoming one for quite awhile now. Actually, nothing will keep my stomache and me from becoming one for as long as the cookies last. Which turns out to be about five seconds ago. (As a side note, the spell checker says that stomache is spelled stomach, but that looks so weird to me that I'm going to leave it as it is).

Sigh.

It's interesting how fast things we take for granted disappear. I really was looking forward to having cookies tonight. My mom made these really amazing peanut butter chocolate bars that are always delicious, and I found them earlier on today, to my delight. You might ask "to what lengths is Major Bubbles willing to go to get his cookies?" I answer for you, willing to go the impenetrable darkness, the unbreakable security, the outright shockingness of the cookie jar. Works out well that way, because that's where my mom always puts the cookies (weird, huh?).

I'm in a slightly reflective mood (something that is not really that odd for me) about those cookies, and about my life in general. I've been super busy of late, as reflected in the amount of writing I've done. Between a play, choir, school, trying to work thirty hours a week (not doing well so far), and also trying to be a good friend, I have what I like to refer to as an excess of life. Being that busy makes it hard to just stop and think, but every once and awhile I get a gem of time to think. Normally my thoughts at those moments revolve around girls or relationships (whether they be of the romantic or not varieties), in varying states of annoyance, happiness, hope, and destitution. That's not the only think I have, though.

I also like to think about me. Oooh, so humble! Of course, I don't have any material to work with that's so quite immediate as myself, so I think it's excusable. Today I'm thinking about me and cookies.

I like to eat cookies from the cookie jar. One, that's where they're supposed to be. Two, every time I eat a cookie I see how many are left. Three, every time I want a cookie I have to get up from what I'm doing and physically go to the cookie jar (I've thought about coming up with a song about skipping to the cookie jar, or maybe the happy cookie song, but so far I've got nothing). Four, when the cookie jar is empty, the cookies are gone. I may be sad, but I know that they're gone, and for the majority of the times I don't go looking for more.

Right now I have a question. Are life's cookies found in a cookie jar?

Another great thing about cookies is that you have to learn early on that you can't shove 'um down your mouth as fast as you want to. I tried that at an early age and found out that the Heimlich is not as fun to have done to you as it is to say. Yeah, my limit is about two at a time. Okay, my limit is really only one, but I eat it so fast you might easily be fooled that it's really two.

Are life's cookies found in a cookie jar?

My favorite cookie is the chocolate chip oatmeal cookie. My goodness, you'd almost be willing to sell your soul for a batch of those. My mom knows that they're my favorite, so she almost always makes an extra batch, because she knows how fast I go through them. I once ate fifteen (or more, I don't remember because I didn't count) cookies in one sitting. Granted, I had a rather nasty sugar rush and later headache afterwards, but man were those cookies good.

Are life's cookies found in a cookie jar?

While you think about it (or don't think about it. I'm not a mind reader, I can't tell you what you're thinking right now), I think I'm going to go and eat the very last peanut butter chocolate bar cookie thingy that my mom left. Yummmm. . .