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. . .

Blended words

Every once and awhile I have something I need to say, something that needs to be expressed the moment after it's felt. Even though it's much past when I'm comfortable being awake, now is one of the moments.

One of the worst things about these moments, though, is that it often involves not wanting everyone to know, but being unable to say it to anyone in particular. There are emotions that would be uncomfortable and even inappropriate to be shared with some people but would perhaps be suited quite well for other people. So I'm stuck in an odd situation of having something that needs to be said, but being unable to say it to anyone in particular (with the exception, maybe of my parents) and at the same time not feeling that it's appropriate to be shared with all.

When this happens, I always turn to my old standby; poetry. It's the best tool I have for saying something without actually stating it and also expressing myself in a way that is satisfactory for me that wouldn't give much away about myself that others don't already know. I think. Anyway, what follows is me poetically turning my thoughts inside out. It's coming out raw, so don't expect anything spectacular.

Blended worlds

A blender must be an exciting place to be
Swirls of color and sensation all
Mixing life together in a dazzling array
Of swoops and swirls.

Perhaps people even are like that blend
Of fruits and vegetables, ice creams and
Sweeteners, orange juice and raspberries
All swirling together.

The noise of such excitement
Can grind at times; while beginning
Or slowing down, but the middle of the incessant
Noise is bearable, even pleasant.

Each moment more life swirls by
To add to the color and flavor of the blend.
An excitement unparalleled inside
That machine Goes on and on, until it's done.

Speeding up or slowing down,
The blender is merciless in its march
I just wish someone could enjoy
The moments the blender stops.

Perhaps I wasn't as good at hiding the meaning behind this one. Perhaps I was. Only time (or you, the reader) will tell, and meanwhile, I feel better about the evening. I have a lot to think over. Goodnight, world.

A small (not short) story

Hello blogger friends! I admit with frankness, I'm not blogging very much, though the reason is an understandable one. Between the life of a working full time student who also is involved with both a choir and a play, I'm a little sandwiched at the moment, and find little time for much other than taking care of the various things I've already committed myself too. Still, I found time today for a little bit of blogging fun.

I just barely started an introduction to fiction class. One of the first things that the book of that class mentions is the ending of books, about how some books are written merely for the purpose of enjoyment, while others accomplish that while still portraying a message. I decided to try my hand at a short story today. You can pick it apart as you wish (and in fact I'd be delighted if you did). So I hope you enjoy this small story.

Crossing Point
By Major Bubbles.

"The middle ground is always the worst," he thought, as he cautiously approached the opening of his cave. His heart began to race as the cold air that always mingles on the edge of the cave encroached his lungs, stinging his throat all the way down. He shivered as he got closer to the edge, the white, dead light from the world outside now beginning to overwhelm the warm and friendly yellow glow from inside his cove.

"Could something be waiting for him, just outside?" he wondered, his mouth dry and his breathing shallow. Wishing there was another way, he slowly poked his head around the corner, his heart beating so fiercely that he felt it pounding in his head. Trying with futility to quiet both breathing and heart, he stuck his head a little further out. Now, at this moment, when he couldn't quite see around the corner, but someone could probably see the top of his head, was the moment of greatest alarm. Trying to swallow his dry tongue, he pushed out far enough to see around the corner. A sharp intake of breath and. . .

Nothing. Even though it meant temporary safety, all his nerves were tensed, every muscle ready, knowing that any moment the clear horizon could be smudged by a hostile observer. Wishing for extra eyes, and trying to see everywhere at once, he crept further out into the cold, hard light. He felt exposed, cold, and vulnerable. Thank goodness the distance to travel across the middle ground was not long.

He made his way across, coming to the place just around the corner of safety, of another secluded spot. Clutching his only protection close against his skin, he sidled around the corner, wary of anything moving. Suddenly, there was a sound! The soft padding of something moving, quietly, slowly behind him. His heart began to race, the adrenaline in his body surging as he considered what to do. Fight? No, he was much to vulnerable and exposed. Flight was the only option. The quiet movement behind him echoed in his ears, pushing his heart to greater limits. Blood rushing to his head, he fled.

"A few steps more, I mustn't be seen!" he plead to whoever listens to human thoughts. "Let me not be seen!"

The soft footfalls behind drove him on. One step. Two. The sound grew greater, perhaps more because of his fright than actual fact.

He practically flew into his safety, into seclusion from watching eyes, pausing only to shut the way behind him. Flicking on the lights, he breathed a sigh of relief, comforted by the warm yellow glow of familiar lights.

"That's the last time I forget to take my towel with me to the shower," he sighed, beginning to towel off.


I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope that it was enjoyable. Feel free to pick it apart, I'm kind of hoping you do.

Vocabulary

Fwidipan, who I have made mention of before, once caught me in a web of kindly meant fabrication. I have the tendency to assume that people are better at things then they normally let on, and so I also am wont to compliment people for skills that I have not yet had the chance to see in action. In other words, I assume that people are good at things when it's very possible that they are not. Such was the case, once, with Fwidipan, who sought to disabuse my ideas of her ability on the piano by saying "Major, you've never actually heard me play." Her timing was most exquisite, as I was in the process of explaining just how good she was to my mother. It's a good thing that those sorts of fabrications never do much to hurt my self esteem, or I may have been irreversibly damaged.

I thought about it later, though, trying to come up with a reason as to why I was so ready to accept that my friend was indeed the talented pianist that she later turned out to be, and I finally came up with a reason. Yes, my friends, I would very easily be scammed out of my mind (though it is still in debate how much good cerebral donations do anyone) because I based my opinion of Fwidipan's talent on one thing, and one thing only: her vocabulary was right.

Now, before you decide that I truly am a simpleton that enjoys writing nonsense on the Internet, and then checking to see how many people are reading it, I'd like to defend the intelligence of what I just said. I get a strange satisfaction out of sitting in front of my computer, checking the meter and saying "oh, look Bubbles, you got another one." But that doesn't defend my intelligence in any way. Now the defense may present it's case.

I call as my first witness my brother, who for the moment I will call Three (mostly because I'm stealing the idea from Tolkien Boy who for the longest time referred to me as four, and this is a pretty easy way to refer to someone in a nondescript way). My brother is a very intelligent guy, and understand computers and things to do with them and his job much more than I do. How do I know that? Well, because he talks about hard drive, gigs, memory, storing capacity, something to do with rams and fords, and other stuff like that. When a person understands (and can explain) the meanings and uses of the vocabulary, then more often than not they actually do know more about it than I do. Unless I can do the same.

Now, we go back to Fwidipan. She mentioned how much she loved playing different styles of music that I know I've heard of before, but most certainly couldn't tell you what they're like. Certain composers she mentioned (that I was vaguely familiar with) and I got rather intimidated. So, I came to the natural conclusion that she must be a good pianist.

Now, here's the clincher. Most of the time, and with almost all walks of life, I make up my own vocabulary. I'm worried that that means that pretty soon people will begin to either think that I'm a genius (which I'm not) or a simpleton (which I'm not) or just plain crazy (which I just might be. I've never been tested). What can I say? I'm a cahoodling maniacle. Of course, I might have just used two words that already exist (or maybe just one) that have absolutely no relevance at all to what has been said. Mlegh!