Responsibilities in the morning

Before the tin was left nearly empty, the weather began taking a dramatic turn but the behavior worsened in the sixth grade but somehow lessened in the seventh. Announcements for buses were nowhere near and the chatter was incessant with the exception of the few willing to learn. In almost every class, at least one student possessed athletic abilities and small stature while peers carried fuller frames and personalities expressive of a desire to learn.

With contributions from specialized students of scheming, the review twisted into more of a game where admitting a selection of a prize to the strongest performer garnered more attention than perceiving respectful behavior as the norm. Chaos ensued in the peculiar manner dismissals incited. It was clear the organized process of the activity evaporated with Mr. F’s management of the classroom the first week of the year. Smiling was one mistake realized merely three weeks into the year but something from which he felt vital to recover.

Not in a long time had Mr. F been challenged in tactics encouraging adaptability, wit and creativity on such fast pace and in large volume but a challenge of significant proportions it was. Instances of hardship were ill-phrased obstacles worthy of time and consideration, especially when seeking an immediate resolution, but he decided this would be rewarding on several levels.

Before resting for the next morning, Mr. F gazed at the night sky.
Before resting for the next morning, Mr. F gazed at the night sky.

These thoughts of the classroom circulated as quickly as people who passed the counter at Mr. F’s frequent destination. Old Bess offered a banquet for the senses and spirits but very often turned into a mecca of inebriation. Though he could savor a bottle or two by himself, customary it was to find him observing fellow patrons and engaging in delightful conversations with the ease of a butterfly out of its cocoon while offering libations to new and familiar comrades. Memories of Old Bess and visits to familiar places strung together his daily habits in spite of inevitable responsibilities in the morning.

Just before June

Below drooping branches
And the sun’s intensity,
A gentleman of a certain age
Finds a suitable place
So he and his grandson
Would enjoy an afternoon
Just before June.

The young person’s cautious
Gaze at each blade of grass
Sparks the grandfather’s
Curiosity but innocently
He did inquire to trigger
the child’s precocious tendency:
“If we’re all humans
On the same planet,
Why do spiders seem to
Show respect for boundaries
While trust bestowed
With once perceived
Like-minded comrades, though
Distantly distinct and dearly
Treasured as friends,
Proves little more than
Disappointing upon fruition
Of actions and words lending
To what may be friendship?”

The child’s gaze slowly
Shifts from grass to roots
But without a change
In countenance so the
Grandfather stands aloof.
“Experience is little
At my young age
But friendship shouldn’t
Entail such burdens you allude.”
Then with a passing of a butterfly
His attention takes him swiftly.

Crestfallen by the truth
Of valid young words,
The grandfather reaches
For his old harmonica
To play an old but familiar tune.

back to the story

The song continues to play in the
background. It’s a Billie Holiday
song with an elegantly blaring
trumpet responding to every vocal
whim of an intriguing songstress.
On the television is a video game.
I remember coming out in the nineties
when it was in its initial birthing to
the public. It was a creepy game
and with the mission involved, one
can’t help but understand the ability
to feel no emotions while simulating
murderous acts upon deathly creatures
in what is clearly a fictional scenario.
Perhaps I haven’t watched it long
enough to understand how the
player of the game is given
control of the character running
around through the continuous
obstacles in the pursuit of
something with the two or
three other characters who
are equipped with their head
attire and gear upon their backs.
Goodness, the cinematic parts of
this game are quite elaborate.

The female character is wandering
through the maze of ladders and
tunnels in which she can swim
but must avoid the clawing of
some sort of sea creature. Blue
lights or a glare from something
in the distance makes one curious
but the door proves more worthy
of an entry. Wandering seems
like a frequent pastime required
by the characters even in the
midst of large violent dinosaur
sea being capable of attacking
with arms and large teeth lining
the side of the torso facing the
human as well as a thick shell
with dangerous prominent peaks.

Why is this video game so
captivating? Is it the time
of night? Level of exhaustion?
Who is to say if other adjectives
signaled tracking devices
capable of alerting certain
enforcements of what they
inappropriately deem
violators of traffic conditions.

But back to the story.

Goodness, there is so much
stimulation available right now.
I almost feel like I’m feeling
a sensory overload. There’s smooth
music playing from an online radio
application. A vivid video game is
unfolding so violently in image
and music. My fingers want to
capture thoughts at these very
moments for whatever reason.
And then the rush of writing
everything down gets immediately
old. Instantaneously there’s
a wish of being more
participatory in
conversation rather
than attempting to do
exactly what, oh, who was
it in The Waves, did because
of an interest in noting everything
for the purpose of a future project.
Or was it The Years? Shit. Maybe
To the Lighthouse?

with a blindfold

blindfold

While in a district court and on
my way to the second floor to
elucidate a foreseeable outcome,
my eyes were struck by a statue
named Lady Justice whose eyes
were covered by a blindfold
and whose hand contained a scale.
Witnessing the stone’s grey color
and precisely carved skin and cloth,
I smiled with curiosity as the question
passed of deeming a sense frivolous
when using judgement to determine
culpability. Objectivity may be
its purpose but when layers of
contradictions and reports are
used to give a ruling member of
the court an impression of one’s
history to determine a course of
action before a dismissal of a
person in question, it seems
strange to rely on this decision-
making system in the midst of
quite blinding chaos. Ah, decisions.
How they demand attention and are
responsible for changes of varying forms.

twenty minutes

Twenty minutes after midnight
I heard a discussion about
pharmaceutical companies being
under quite an investigative
pressure. I think it was on
91.7 FM and when the subject
was introduced, immediately
my mind went to an appointment
I had with a psychiatrist in
two thousand eight or nine.
He was a person whom I’d
maintain for follow-ups and
refills, however, in the midst
of a very paranoid state I
inquired the possibility of
pharmaceutical companies working
with those in occupations of a
psychiatric kind to exchange
money and promotion of drugs,
to which he responded in a
wide-eyed manner, “If there
were any benefits, I wish I
could use some of them,” and
then remained silent. It was
he I gave trust to intoxicate
my mind with helpful substances
in pursuit of emotional stability.
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|_ife is crazy.
The three words
come to mind often
when there’s difficulty
thinking of something
to say about a topic.
Maybe the habit is
the result of perpetual
side effects of pills
deemed advisable for consumption.
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Do thoughts of what has passed and
what will come in near and far
futures determine what has become
of the present moment in time?
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Only a few
more minutes
until the
clock strikes.

of amorous relations

A song was written
about a young woman
and charm of a person
by which she’s smitten.
The rhythm was off
but the theme was evident
of a romantic pursuit
forced to remain secret.
Why in this season
do energies shift
and influence admirers
to reveal an eerie twitch
when trying to determine first
whose number will be uttered
and consequently lend to the
spreading of various ignorances?
Rhyme and reason do not enough
in explaining the dynamics
of amorous affairs.

so swift with nothingness

This New York experience was intriguing
though quite unsettling. I lost my phone
the first night of debauchery as well
as a generous amount of almonds and
blah blah. New York is exhausting. I don’t
know why I find it so enticing but I can
see why some are fond of Jersey. It is
such a different pace there I can’t help
but feel like it’s a lovely escape from
the chaos of the city of Manhattan and
its surrounding boroughs. As I sit here
in LaGuardia peering around the tablet
station, I see a woman looking at the
cost of education within the Butler
University website. There is also a
hearing on Syria military action with
Secretary of State John Kerry playing
on the television in the corner of the
large window. I noticed he stumbled
upon his words when responding to a
question about support being provided
by the government. I can’t really pay
attention to what’s being discussed
mostly because of a hangover that
hasn’t really gone away since I woke
up after eleven in the morning and
rushed as fast as possible to Queens
to gather my belongings and catch the
bus to travel for an hour and forty
minutes in order to get to my flight
in time, which wasn’t departing until
four thirty but for some reason seemed
to be sooner than I had expected. This
city does that though—influences a
sense of urgency among its residents
and visitors no matter what the activity.
Even as I sit and wait for my computer
to charge completely, it’s like I cannot
stop thinking about life but that doesn’t
really mean anything. I guess the pace
of my brain is so swift with nothingness
it’s kind of comical. I wish I could take
photos but my batteries are dead. I
thought about purchasing new batteries
for my Nikon camera but my feet are so
tired and my body wants nothing but
cheesy carbs on a level that deems
movement of the body frivolous. So
silly this does feel as I ramble on.

flight of listless thought

Oh, the day’s been long
and it’s not quite ten.
Brain cells may very well flee my head.
So long, I hear myself say to the boss
until I think about the inevitable money loss.

Change may come but never fast enough.
Perhaps slow it needs to move
while one sits in wonderment
of where the spirit should travel.

I remember the days I would daydream
on the vast school playground
watching clouds float by
and other kids move about,
never present was I
rather in a flight of listless thought.

Pausing to contemplate
the movement of my body
as it rotates in a chair,
the scent of salmon
in the midst of oil and butter
soothes the day’s exhaustive chatter.

with the cover facing the aisle

Sunday seemed like a day meant to absorb curious energies of books. Upon entering the store, Nigellissima was the first book to catch my attention. I flipped through images of fresh produce and divine Italian recipes with occasional pauses to smile in contemplation of the length of time Ms. Lawson used to determine how best to showcase her fondness of culinary art. In seconds a glimpse of figs, though they are quite delicious, deterred my interest in looking any further so I closed the book and shuffled around the center tables to the end of a shelf near a family seeking counsel from customer service. The cover of Barrel Fever caught my attention and my eyes followed a few lines of crafty humor until the absence of caffeine in my system threatened the lighthearted nature of the literary excursion. The energy of the family was pleasant but the noise was slightly taxing on my eardrums so I escaped into a mass of fiction.

Shelves filled with work by authors whose last names clutter the end of the alphabet seemed to beckon my spirit. Within seconds I found The Imperfectionists with the cover facing the aisle, which was copyrighted in 2010 but currently dons a silver Notable Book badge of The New York Times Book Review. The cover also advertised a conversation between Malcolm Gladwell (for some reason I thought his name wouldn’t evoke the red squiggle on this computer) and Tom Rachman at the end of the story. With its speed, detail and humor, Rachman’s method of storytelling immediately enraptured my attention; however, my curiosity of his conduct in interviews bubbled more as familiarity blossomed between Lloyd and myself.

The transcription of Rachman and Gladwell’s conversation unraveled the threads of my creative blanket under which I no longer find solace—clarifying what was meant clouds my original thought—and incited a unique enthusiasm, which sparks, effervesces, and dissipates like ripples in the water unpredictably. When I returned to the beginning of the conversation to read the description of Gladwell’s current activity in writing, he revealed a plan to publish a new collection of old work epitomizing his days in New York. Immediately my mind raced through recent examples of the exceedingly prevalent tendency to collect.

A recent example arose when a friend discussed someone’s fascination for propaganda of the Second World War, which manifested itself in spending a significant amount of money on an original pendant of significant weight strung on a loop of beautifully dyed plies.

Though examples of collecting are visible in front of electronic devices and in personal spaces, I suppose an electronic device could be considered personal space as well, conversations about collecting have been surprisingly frequent this season. In the case one produces an adverse reaction to the habit, if in fact the last word of that portion of the sentence is the appropriate term, the matter of sustaining one’s time with intangible indulgences comes to mind. Then comes the question whether the unenthused party finds a similar release of endorphins when actively feeding their literary imaginations, in which case the degree to which one feels fondly for a book would come into question as they may find solace in continuing the free cycle of textual institutions.

Fiction, how you baffle me. How long did it take Rachman and Gladwell to collect, assemble and execute their fragments of thought?

The story of a more recent thought cloud of mine includes the journey of a gangster princess who navigates through intense circumstances that test her will and courage in ways she can foresee without being prepared to address the issues at hand. For some reason, the theme seems quite similar to the work environment of most recent times. The negotiation process required to get individuals to endorse through taking advantage of an opportunity to lower the amount of money owed to creditors. Perhaps mafia energy of an older generation would fit better in contemporary Detroit.

The first episode could be a meeting where a new alliance with a formidable record in advertising is entertained in order to garner support with hopes of building communities but it’s a trap from an underground force slowly gaining momentum, which is under the false leadership of someone physically unappealing but charismatic. The handsome leader of the rival group eventually makes the acquaintance of the princess after they meet at a jazz club but to her dismay, and before any suspicions arise, his celibacy forces the princess to reconsider how she carries herself in public settings.

So true it is to create a story from immediate mental leaps, one will confront messy and impractical barriers compared to assembling fragments of thought smashed between dull pages of notebooks with varying thickness. At the same time, what becomes of the censoring voice? Goodness.