He Doesn't Know Why

Chil'ens.

Hither and thither.

Oughtna.

All this colloquial Civil War, Slave dialect just has me frazzled.

You know it's gone too far when you call your little brother and his friend "Chil'ens".

Surprisingly enough, I am not Aunt Chloe from Uncle Tom's Cabin.

That book is driving me a little bit nuts.

And at the same time,

It makes me feel cool to read "classic literature".

But not cool enough, mind you.

I still have a tendency to go ape and sputter off vague profanities at the book.

The actual book itself, not even the story.

But the paperback copy next to me.

It's always right there.

I swear, it haunts my dreams.

History and all that.

I eat, sleep, dream American History.

And that, my dear friends, isn't a good thing.

Because I can honestly say that I don't really care for

The Crittendon Compromise

Or

The Battle at Antietam.

There are better things to study,

quite frankly.

But so goes it,

Learning day in and day out.

At least it keeps my mind occupied enough to not think about other things.

Psych.

(Took me forever to learn how to spell that.

People always spell it all wrong...)

If I ever ceased thinking, I cannot imagine the black hole in my brain matter that would ensue.

So I don't stop thinking.

Anyone want to enlighten me as to what "Chamber Pop" music is?

iTunes gave me one of those silly mixes called "Chamber Pop Mix".

And I haven't the foggiest as to what such a genre encompasses,

Except I can now see it includes Fleet Foxes, Belle and Sebastian, and Vampire Weekend.

I never thought the three bands had much in common.

But apparently iTunes' magical mystery musical mapping technology thought they did.

And I'm not going argue with my computer as of now.

So if you know what said genre is.

Tell me, please.

So.

You know those people that make their entire relationship public via Facebook?

Those annoying couples always fighting on there or being all "Cutesy" by ending every status with the date they got together?

(The really annoying ones are the ones that say "i love himmm! /n*11/28/10!! You've been 'dating' for two days, I highly doubt your 'love'.)

And they go proclaiming their 'undying love' 'til kingdom come, until oh hey, they're love expires.

And then you get fifty facebook updates of sulky, angsty lyrics about 'heartbreak' and how, oh boo hoo, when I cry it reminds me of you.

Or "I am so over you, I never loved you!"

Cripes, make up your silly little minds people.

What is this,

A shitty reality show?

Or moreso, a vapid reality show.

And then the little relationship thingy goes from

"In a relationship" to "It's complicated"

To "Single"

To "In a realtionship"

And the ever so touching "I love you babe." Facebook wall post.

Modern relationships.

I don't understand them.

I'd say they're way we have such a high teen pregnancy rate.

You meet a guy.

You add him on facebook.

Chat via Facebook.

Screw.

Break-up.

A disgusting, vicious, and all too realistic cycle.

Twenty-first century America never ceases to amaze me.

I'd like a 60's relationship please,

You go to a dance with guy and aren't "dating",

You can hang out and listen to records before you get serious and actually go with him.

Why can't this happen today?

A) Teenagers apparently just can't handle a 'slow' relationship.

B) Nobody listens to records anymore. :(

C) The phrase "go with" is outdated.

Time machine, anyone?

the 1960's were better.

Let's all go back there and be groovy and cool.

And I don't care how much I "romanticize" the time period (in the words of my grandmother),

I just like the era.

I like the music and ideas and films and clothes and people.

Wow,

What a ramble.

Wouldn't you agree?

You all probably didn't need to know my stance on Facebook relationships or my obvious affinity for the sixties.

But now you know anyway.

Do you like the sixties, you all everybody?

Are you fed up with Facebook romances?

Then join me in my time machine and we'll all just go back to the sixties and get our psychedelic groove on, shall we?

Indeed.

Have I mentioned recently my affinity for

The very lovely guy, who I do not carry on a facebook or otherwise relationship with?

I most certainly have, haven't I?

I wonder if he digs the sixties.

At all.

Wouldn't that be stellar?

He's such an odd person,

And it takes so much not to just completely give away the little non-secret

Of who he actually is.

But if I did.

Tomorrow there'd be hell to pay.

(That's from a song.)

Why are humans so ridiculous as to let themselves fall victim to vicious crushes?

We are a peculiar race, I'd say.

So odd.

Alas, I will leave you all now.

Adieu and good night,

My dears.

Re-admittance:

I love you.

Still.

Hmph.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

I just put on a Christmas CD.

"Christmas with the Rat Pack",

And really, it's my favorite Christmas album.

You can't beat these guys, no way.

And so I'm going to sit here and sing along

And act like I'm not overwhelmed by yet another Monday.

Mondays are smacks in the face.

I think that's the only reason they exist.

To crush our hopes and dreams

And beat us over the head with them.

Like shoes.

Or rocks.

Or bricks.

Because after a leisurely, pleasant weekend

You go back to wherever it is you spend the week

And you get bombarded with things you'd rather not have anything to do with.

Projects and tests.

People and things to pencil into your calendar.

And sure, we've all got those water cooler conversations and lunch table brouhahas,

But those certainly don't make the five day work week any less painful.

Don't make every assignment worth it.

Don't lessen the stress of every test.

Is there a breaking point for people?

At point do we snap in half and just sigh or cry

And say "I am simply fed up with this mediocrity!"

Yes.

Mediocrity.

I think most of us live in this place,

Somewhere between miserable and swell.

Where things just are.

Where everyone answers "Yeah, I'm just fine. Never been better."

And all the people drive to work and try not notice where they're going.

I do understand,

There are days when things are actually pretty great.

But there seems to be a limited quantity of those days.

And a seemingly endless supply of mediocre days.

I have fourteen of those staring me in the face right now.

Fourteen.

And then a very, very long weekend.

I have to keep bringing it up.

It is my current goal.

Survive another three weeks.

Wade through the preposterousness that is my weekday life.

I complain a lot.

But I'd really like to think that I'm just doing the world a favor by saying what nobody else wants to come to terms with.

But I'd be lying to myself.

Brutal honesty isn't actually the best thing.

I really ought to go,

And do things of "notable importance".

Ha.

So I blush when I talk about him,

Or when other people do.

And I don't particularly like that.

Eh,

Off to do schoolwork.

I talk at you all too much.

Adieu.

Louise

It's completely unclear as to what I've been doing for the past five days.

It certainly doesn't seem like much.

I somehow just cannot recall most of the past happenings

Over the Thanksgiving holiday.

How strange.

Can I say I've accomplished things,

When perhaps,

I have not?

I can say though,

That I super-procrastinated for five days.

I didn't do anything.

School-wise.

(Lie: I did math homework and read.)

But truthfully,

If there was something I was supposed to do.

I didn't.

So I really hope there isn't some big project due tomorrow.

On the bright side of things.

15 days of school

Until break.

That's three five day weeks.

And while it seems quite formidable right now,

I know it'll go faster than I'd think.

And then two whole weeks without school.

That's awesome.

And that means.

27 days until Christmas.

27 days full of Christmassy love.

That's awesome too.

I can't say I did much over break.

Only four poems.

I didn't touch my guitar.

But I was pretty much overjoyed for most of the break.

Overjoyed without reason.

I love that feeling.

When you can just grin like a fool

And it's all perfectly alright.

So I think that the lack of school and dismal moods made for a lack of things to blog about.

Funny how life goes.

Also, not seeing him made for less talking about him.

Can you imagine how dead this blog will be over Christmas break?

I can't.

...

I'm actually fretting over this week though.

Video production project due date: Friday.

Utterly screwed.

Awesome.

APUSH test soon-ish?

Utterly screwed.

This is why school isn't so lovely.

I am at a loss for things to say today.

Meaningful things.

So adieu.

Maybe I'll have a good story tomorrow.

Venus In Furs

Happy day-late Thanksgiving, readers.

I hope you've got something/someone you're thankful for.

It's nice.

An entire holiday for being thankful.

For being glad.

For eating food.

And then discussing the killings you're going to make Black Friday shopping.

And I actually went Black Friday shopping.

But I didn't wake up like a crazed person at three am.

I went at ten.

And it was fun.

Not nearly as horrendous as I thought it would be.

And while all the killings I made were a pack of candy cigarettes and a flannel shirt,

It was worth the traffic and craziness.

And tomorrow.

It's on like Donkey Kong.

Meaning:

Christmas.

Holy holly berries, Batman!

It's here.

Already.

Woah.

Trees are going up and lights,

And I broke out the Bing Crosby 45's

And finally embraced the season.

But it makes me a little (a lot) upset

That it seems that I'm losing the sentimentality of the season.

I friggin' love Christmas

(But not before Thanksgiving!)

And I'm depressed that I seem so Scrooge-like this year.

It's not normal.

I blame the weather.

If we could get some snow or something,

It'd be better.

So let's break out those fake-plastic trees, classic Christmas movies and the pine-scented candles.

It's time to get holly-jolly, y'all.

Aside from all of that useless "catching up" type crap.

I'll give you these three attempts at "Dramatic Monologues"

That I've been working on for the past days.

The technique that I was saying "Shit how do you do this!?" about.

This may or may not be how you do it.

But it's what I did.

So go for it.

Dramatic Monologue One: The Taxi Driver

Ya eva’ been jus’ mindin’ your own bizness,

Jus’, ya know, drivin’?

And allofasudden, outta nawhere

(And yeah, I swears, they awl come outta nawhere!)

Comes another bicyclist.

An’ they’re neva – I mean neva-

Usin’ the craws-walks,

An’ ya gotta practick-a-lly jump on ya’ brakes,

An’ whoevers ya happin’ to be drivin’ arownd

They jus’ goes an’ hits the’ heads on the roof o’ the cab,

An’ everyone’s jus’ a-honkin’ and you neva know

Jus’ what the guy was thinkin’.

It’s a damned-big city to jus’ be a-bicyclin’ through,

Ya knows?

-

I swears, ever’time I see a bicyclist,

I rememba’ this-a one time,

(A while ago, I think; ya neva can remember dates, ya know?)

An’ whaddya know, this bicyclist jus’ comes outta nowheres again!

But this time - Oh, it was ugly –

I hit `im and

POW,

They was lyin’ in the street,

All face-down in the city pavement.

It was ridic-ilous, I tell ya,

He was gushing blood all ova’ the place,

An’ the otha’ cabs were jus’ goin’ crazy.

Horns blowin’ and wheels swervin’.

An’ I didn’ know what I oughta do,

(I’m no nurse, no sir.)

So I jus’ lugged `im into the back o’ the cab

An’ he was swearin’ like a damned sailor in the backseat,

An’ I sped off

(As quick as ya can in New York traffic, sheesh)

Dropped that bleeding mess of a cyclist off,

An’ I drove away.

Which, app’rently,

You aren’ suppos’ to do.

Bu hey, ya know?

What can I do?

I’m just a friggin’ cab driver,

An’ I left the meter runnin’.

-

Monologue of a New York taxi driver to a very disgruntled passenger.

Had a little fun there.

Dramatic Monologue Two: Epistle One: Brother

I assume you’re doing well,

In the west, where the sun sets on the desert plains.

And the gold glimmers from all crevices of earth,

Buried in the red-clay, dusty earth.

I assume you’ve made your fortune.

And you’ve left the tiny mining town you first stepped into,

Fresh off the train from Illinois.

What did you say, when you landed in the dusted earth?

Did you forsake god (for the landscape must be so desolate)?

Or did you breathe in the arid winds

And tip the brim of your awkwardly placed

Cowboy hat to lady luck?

For I can only assume that you must look awfully

Funny.

Wearing a hat like that.

Have you met other miners, come to find their riches,

In those little cavern-caves, that I fear will collapse,

And envelop you in the earth.

Brother, I do hope you’ve left the mining town,

I dearly hope you’ve not gone broke.

For I hear that so many that go west

(looking for the “opportunities abound”, as advertised)

Find only fool’s gold and shack-filled towns.

And farming’s no use,

Not when the only green from the earth

Are cacti.

So I hope you may at least look upon the sunsets

And think fondly on your adventures.

I hope that you aren’t lost and gone,

That you may make the journey back,

And see your distraught and fretting wife once more.

She’s been listless and restless since you’ve gone.

All is gone from her eyes,

And I cannot bear to see her

Without you.

So if you have found the gold,

I beg you to return.

And if it eludes you,

Why haven’t you already returned?

Dramatic Monologue Three: To the Sleeping Figure

Sunshining, through curtain lace

That happened to fall on you

As you lie in the bed

In the bedclothes that were yellowed

And warmed by sun.

And age.

And you.

And I watched as you laid, twisted

Amongst the sheets that creased

And were bunched into a heap.

They looked like mountains.

And you, the sleeping giant

In the valley, near the shore

Of the blue blanket.

-

You, my dear,

Were breathing steady,

(Like I suppose one sleeping does)

And I watched the rise and fall of your

Barren chest,

Left to the elements in the morning light,

Where little streams of sunlight fell, illuminating

Your lackluster skin.

To think, you’d soon wake,

And soon be off, in much haste.

And I would not see you again til evening,

When you would return, from the office in the city.

-

And then you would again become this,

Pajama-clad figure, claimed by sheet-monsters.

-

But, for now, I breathe deeply in,

And I smell the faint hints of musk

That belong solely to you,

My slumbering one.

And the scent of Wednesday morning sunshine.

You look cold (nearly porcelain-like, I’d say)

As you’re claimed by your dreams.

And I see the outlines of yesterday

Still playing on your features.

But still, you look calm.

And I cannot help but to reach

Gingerly (I don’t want to wake you)

And touch your pale face.

A gentle, lingering trace of human touch.

I muss your hair

And it sticks in odd directions,

Like the weaving rays of light.

-

But too soon, I see you leave.

Trailing your sunshine-mornings behind you.

(It pains me so, to watch you go

Into the city, to the office that torments you so.)

And I dive underneath the mountainous sheets, still bunched

Where your ankles would’ve been.

And I settle into the imprint of you.

Left behind in sunshine.

So there you have my attempts at Dramatic Monologues.

I don't know.

I tried.

The last one is my personal favorite.

I'm going to write another about a murder.

With that thought.

I bid thee all a goodnight/morning-type thinger.

Adieu.