Her shoes were black and shiny, neither tarnished nor fashionable. She sat perched on her chair, her thrown of sorts, the underrated queen of the upper school. Her purple shearling vest was keeping her upper body warm as she typed vigorously into her macbook pro. I wonder how she does it all, while I can barely drag myself from one class to the next. When I arrive at each location, I make a half assed attempt at listening, but I do end each period with a beautiful doodle to show for my time.
She's right in front of me. Oh my god, she's right there. Should I say something? Or not? I don't want to bother her. But jesus christ, this is definitely a sign from the universe. I'm going to be in this line for a LONG time - I should do it. Maybe she remembers me. Probably. People don't generally forget someone so awkward. Maybe I can play it cool. .. What am I thinking? I'm too hyperactive to ever seem cool. Aaaaargh.
I like this because it has happened to me on more than one occasion, and I definitely share your sense of anxiety around it. The internal debate is displayed nicely.
Sometimes it feels like all we have to say is shit about other people. However, it has only been in these past few weeks that I have recognized how far my peers will go in saying mean things about others. It can be as simple as smirking when a timid, awkward girl gives an announcement at assembly, or as blatant as sitting on a bus while coming home from a game and having a malicious laugh at some poor boy's expense. It's one thing to ignore people that you don't like or don't care about, but to go out of your way to vocally judge them, make fun of them, etc.? It saddens me. I think the worst part is that the people who are considered the funniest, or most liked around me are the ones who use gossiping and cruelness to their advantage, in order to gain attention.
I share your distaste for how unkind some (most?) people can be at times, and I can say with remorse that I have been on the side which you are objecting to... This piece makes a good point and one that would be nice to explore as a community, considering Waynflete's mission is to "include and accept all individuals." Perhaps it is just an immovable fact of high school, or life in general?
Since the days of innocent ambiguity, which predates the time spent fearing over itchy, risen yarbles, I have questioned whether the rhetoric that I have been fed by my superiors is valid, truthful and based in certain fact. Now certain fact is a bit of stretch, because from an early age I knew that there was no right answer to any question, and in fact, most of what my guardians have told me is based in morality, rather than fact. Anyway, I’ve been considering, like every other child, whether or not my parents have me down the right the right path. Today I have experience and perspective, but yesterday I was lost. During the summer of 2008, 2009 and 2010 and was fed a particularly rough and tumble, piss and vinegar based philosophy by my visiting cousin Nat. The majority of Nat’s philosophy seemed a carbon cutout of some old John Wayne propaganda piece like Back to Bataan, or Flying Tigers. Nat would probably say that his inspiration was a product of Full Metal Jacket; maybe that’s more accurate, his training seemed to involve me doing a great deal of running, but his language seemed to refined to be out of Old Gunny. So anyway, a few days ago I’m watching an early digital recording of Nirvana preforming at some MTV designed theater. The video background is dark, hard to make out; bottles on bottles appear to have leaked on the stage floor. Cobain is skinny, preaching Lithium. Chunks of blond bangs make murky and unclear his already abject and relatable voice. The camera turns to the drummer he’s skinny, arms like twigs, but underneath a sweater of pitch black hair lays a six-pack. As he keeps beat, sweat fills the crevasses of the drummer’s muscles, like some cracked up 300. In words of Alex: “Don’t you see, oh my brothers” Nat was wrong. He preached that the path to the body’s perfection was in diet and exercise. I’ve been wasting my time; I’ve been running and selecting food when I should have been investing in Rock n’ roll and heroin. “Or I guess that I just don’t know, and I guess that I just don’t know.”
I often times find myself wondering what it is truly like to be an adult. That is not to say I worship the idea of it, like a child would-- "I can't wait until I'm older!" No, I have certainly realized that yes, there are certain freedoms that come with the added responsibility of adulthood, but f**k that man, who needs responsibility (...kidding). Anyway, what I really mean when I say I wonder what it's truly like to be an adult is actually the fact that, in many ways, I question the differences between adulthood and childhood (and I use "childhood" as an umbrella term which includes teenage-hood)... Do we as humans ever really lose our creative, imaginative gleam-- "Oh, how I yearn for the imagination I had as a child" I hear some people say. Do we ever lose our child-like excitement? I know I certainly haven't. Do we ever lose a fervent hope or passion for the things which interest or provoke us? Or perhaps the apparent lessening of these traits is simply a by-product of societal implications, of what is considered "right" and "wrong" for an adult in today's society. Frankly, I tend to gravitate toward the latter theory. But hey, maybe that's just me.
In our grade, and I am quite guilty of this as well, college is the subject of nearly every conversation. The angst is constant, the stress building. We all feed off of each other's nervous energy; comparing SAT and ACT scores, who applied where, college essays, and a million other things, it just builds until those of us who are trying to hold onto our last bit of sanity utterly lose it. But why the angst? So unnecessary. Every college has good professors, great classes, amazing opportunities. The things differentiating most colleges are minor. No matter where you end up, you'll get a good education. The stress needs to disappear, or my sanity will.
I used to look upon you, dear friend, and smile, charmed by your pretty blue eyes and fair, fair skin. I reveled in your lighter-than-air mustache, and thought: this is the meaning of life! You exuded warmth, and I fancied myself the same. You and I, partners; we had discerned the lock and possessed the key, hadn't we? And when your brother came around, oh how I scowled. In every way that you were beautiful, he was so morbidly ordinary. His clothes so drab, his face worn, I saw nothing worthy of your stock in him. As you radiated warmth, an oppressive monochromatic gray seeped from his every pore. Where I was concerned, there was only one brother.
But a simple week can mean so, so much.
Where my footsteps ring out like the gavel of Zeus, deafening. Where mere air becomes so burdensome that every moment is a war to remain upright, remain a biped. God forbid I succumb to the air's whim, for then those deafening footsteps cease, and I lose any shred of hope that their echoes are in fact the footsteps of others making the same journey. God forbid I succumb to the air's whim, for then I am faced with Godly, deafening silence.
I enter the cafe, and there you two are, as usual. On opposite ends of the bar, looking neither toward nor away from one and other, each perched in a nearly identical pose. I suppose you two are brothers, after all. I walk towards you, and begin to pull up a chair. But when I look to your face, I recoil violently and avert my eyes. What has become of my old friend? Certainly this is not you; where you were warm and inviting, this new man is severe. His colors are disconcerting. His face is empty, nothing but fluff, nothing like yours. His eyes nearly colorless, he stares at me intently, and with those terrifying eyes says “It is not I who has gone. No, no, no. Rather, it is I who has remained.”
Yeah like what are you even going for here, Max? I don't know--but that's refreshing. I like the contrast you make between these brothers: it spans so many different senses and states of being. I also like how you end the piece by addressing the man.
Thank you guys for reading my piece! I wish that there was some way that I could make the title more obvious using this writing software, but there isn't. The writing doesn't make that much sense as it is, but it will make absolutely no sense if you miss the title: Dr. Gachet. It is a reference to the two versions of the van Gogh painting called Portrait of Dr. Gachet.
The hockey stick. Today, Gavriella’s hockey stick fell in the middle of the room. In the span of one second, it was tipped upright and held by sure hands, then suddenly it collapsed to the floor. It just tipped right over. It fell beautifully, however. Vertical to horizontal, it made an arc in the air. I feel that this hockey stick is my life. It just tipped right over. Now, however, I intend to pick it right back up. The trouble is, the fallen hockey stick has introduced so many other stresses in my life. The stick- my life, lies there on the floor because I don’t have time to pick it up myself, I’m too busy with everything else going on around my I can’t seem to find time to pick it back up again. So this afternoon, seeing Gavriella’s fallen hockey stick, I picked it up, and handed it to her. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re welcome.”
Her shoes were black and shiny, neither tarnished nor fashionable. She sat perched on her chair, her thrown of sorts, the underrated queen of the upper school. Her purple shearling vest was keeping her upper body warm as she typed vigorously into her macbook pro. I wonder how she does it all, while I can barely drag myself from one class to the next. When I arrive at each location, I make a half assed attempt at listening, but I do end each period with a beautiful doodle to show for my time.
ReplyDeleteShe's right in front of me. Oh my god, she's right there. Should I say something? Or not? I don't want to bother her. But jesus christ, this is definitely a sign from the universe. I'm going to be in this line for a LONG time - I should do it. Maybe she remembers me. Probably. People don't generally forget someone so awkward. Maybe I can play it cool.
ReplyDelete..
What am I thinking? I'm too hyperactive to ever seem cool.
Aaaaargh.
I like this because it has happened to me on more than one occasion, and I definitely share your sense of anxiety around it. The internal debate is displayed nicely.
DeleteSometimes it feels like all we have to say is shit about other people. However, it has only been in these past few weeks that I have recognized how far my peers will go in saying mean things about others. It can be as simple as smirking when a timid, awkward girl gives an announcement at assembly, or as blatant as sitting on a bus while coming home from a game and having a malicious laugh at some poor boy's expense. It's one thing to ignore people that you don't like or don't care about, but to go out of your way to vocally judge them, make fun of them, etc.? It saddens me. I think the worst part is that the people who are considered the funniest, or most liked around me are the ones who use gossiping and cruelness to their advantage, in order to gain attention.
ReplyDeleteI share your distaste for how unkind some (most?) people can be at times, and I can say with remorse that I have been on the side which you are objecting to... This piece makes a good point and one that would be nice to explore as a community, considering Waynflete's mission is to "include and accept all individuals." Perhaps it is just an immovable fact of high school, or life in general?
DeleteSince the days of innocent ambiguity, which predates the time spent fearing over itchy, risen yarbles, I have questioned whether the rhetoric that I have been fed by my superiors is valid, truthful and based in certain fact. Now certain fact is a bit of stretch, because from an early age I knew that there was no right answer to any question, and in fact, most of what my guardians have told me is based in morality, rather than fact. Anyway, I’ve been considering, like every other child, whether or not my parents have me down the right the right path. Today I have experience and perspective, but yesterday I was lost. During the summer of 2008, 2009 and 2010 and was fed a particularly rough and tumble, piss and vinegar based philosophy by my visiting cousin Nat. The majority of Nat’s philosophy seemed a carbon cutout of some old John Wayne propaganda piece like Back to Bataan, or Flying Tigers. Nat would probably say that his inspiration was a product of Full Metal Jacket; maybe that’s more accurate, his training seemed to involve me doing a great deal of running, but his language seemed to refined to be out of Old Gunny. So anyway, a few days ago I’m watching an early digital recording of Nirvana preforming at some MTV designed theater. The video background is dark, hard to make out; bottles on bottles appear to have leaked on the stage floor. Cobain is skinny, preaching Lithium. Chunks of blond bangs make murky and unclear his already abject and relatable voice. The camera turns to the drummer he’s skinny, arms like twigs, but underneath a sweater of pitch black hair lays a six-pack. As he keeps beat, sweat fills the crevasses of the drummer’s muscles, like some cracked up 300. In words of Alex: “Don’t you see, oh my brothers” Nat was wrong. He preached that the path to the body’s perfection was in diet and exercise. I’ve been wasting my time; I’ve been running and selecting food when I should have been investing in Rock n’ roll and heroin. “Or I guess that I just don’t know, and I guess that I just don’t know.”
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteI often times find myself wondering what it is truly like to be an adult. That is not to say I worship the idea of it, like a child would-- "I can't wait until I'm older!" No, I have certainly realized that yes, there are certain freedoms that come with the added responsibility of adulthood, but f**k that man, who needs responsibility (...kidding). Anyway, what I really mean when I say I wonder what it's truly like to be an adult is actually the fact that, in many ways, I question the differences between adulthood and childhood (and I use "childhood" as an umbrella term which includes teenage-hood)... Do we as humans ever really lose our creative, imaginative gleam-- "Oh, how I yearn for the imagination I had as a child" I hear some people say. Do we ever lose our child-like excitement? I know I certainly haven't. Do we ever lose a fervent hope or passion for the things which interest or provoke us? Or perhaps the apparent lessening of these traits is simply a by-product of societal implications, of what is considered "right" and "wrong" for an adult in today's society. Frankly, I tend to gravitate toward the latter theory. But hey, maybe that's just me.
ReplyDeleteIn our grade, and I am quite guilty of this as well, college is the subject of nearly every conversation. The angst is constant, the stress building. We all feed off of each other's nervous energy; comparing SAT and ACT scores, who applied where, college essays, and a million other things, it just builds until those of us who are trying to hold onto our last bit of sanity utterly lose it. But why the angst? So unnecessary. Every college has good professors, great classes, amazing opportunities. The things differentiating most colleges are minor. No matter where you end up, you'll get a good education. The stress needs to disappear, or my sanity will.
ReplyDeleteDr. Gachet
ReplyDeleteI used to look upon you, dear friend, and smile, charmed by your pretty blue eyes and fair, fair skin. I reveled in your lighter-than-air mustache, and thought: this is the meaning of life! You exuded warmth, and I fancied myself the same. You and I, partners; we had discerned the lock and possessed the key, hadn't we?
And when your brother came around, oh how I scowled. In every way that you were beautiful, he was so morbidly ordinary. His clothes so drab, his face worn, I saw nothing worthy of your stock in him. As you radiated warmth, an oppressive monochromatic gray seeped from his every pore. Where I was concerned, there was only one brother.
But a simple week can mean so, so much.
Where my footsteps ring out like the gavel of Zeus, deafening. Where mere air becomes so burdensome that every moment is a war to remain upright, remain a biped. God forbid I succumb to the air's whim, for then those deafening footsteps cease, and I lose any shred of hope that their echoes are in fact the footsteps of others making the same journey. God forbid I succumb to the air's whim, for then I am faced with Godly, deafening silence.
I enter the cafe, and there you two are, as usual. On opposite ends of the bar, looking neither toward nor away from one and other, each perched in a nearly identical pose. I suppose you two are brothers, after all. I walk towards you, and begin to pull up a chair. But when I look to your face, I recoil violently and avert my eyes. What has become of my old friend? Certainly this is not you; where you were warm and inviting, this new man is severe. His colors are disconcerting. His face is empty, nothing but fluff, nothing like yours. His eyes nearly colorless, he stares at me intently, and with those terrifying eyes says “It is not I who has gone. No, no, no. Rather, it is I who has remained.”
To be continued
The imagery is beautiful. Your meaning is not obvious, and leaves much for the author to interpret. Its really really nice.
DeleteYeah like what are you even going for here, Max? I don't know--but that's refreshing. I like the contrast you make between these brothers: it spans so many different senses and states of being. I also like how you end the piece by addressing the man.
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
DeleteThank you guys for reading my piece! I wish that there was some way that I could make the title more obvious using this writing software, but there isn't. The writing doesn't make that much sense as it is, but it will make absolutely no sense if you miss the title: Dr. Gachet. It is a reference to the two versions of the van Gogh painting called Portrait of Dr. Gachet.
DeleteLOLOLOLOLOOL
DeleteThe hockey stick.
ReplyDeleteToday, Gavriella’s hockey stick fell in the middle of the room. In the span of one second, it was tipped upright and held by sure hands, then suddenly it collapsed to the floor. It just tipped right over. It fell beautifully, however. Vertical to horizontal, it made an arc in the air. I feel that this hockey stick is my life. It just tipped right over. Now, however, I intend to pick it right back up. The trouble is, the fallen hockey stick has introduced so many other stresses in my life. The stick- my life, lies there on the floor because I don’t have time to pick it up myself, I’m too busy with everything else going on around my I can’t seem to find time to pick it back up again. So this afternoon, seeing Gavriella’s fallen hockey stick, I picked it up, and handed it to her. “Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome.”