Broken Pattern

Pulp Fiction

Here’s the secret: Three years ago Facebook was bought over by the Governement for the most elaborate plan of psychological identifying and brain washing. Yeah, I went there. Today for the first time I realized that the, what is normally “Ok” on most everything, instead they use “Okay”. In an attempt for them to create the most manipulative generation of consumers, they can easily pin-point their main targets into funds to reap maximum income. In fifty years, “higher” civilization will be nothing more than a money cycling machine.

Of course, this all goes on without anyone being the wiser, save for intellectual artists and people listening to California Waiting by Kings of Leon. But think of where we are. With global communication programs we’ve endowed ourselves with, we’ve muted ourselves to single cells of imagery. Of course, it’s grown now to include some visual footage, but to see so many people and know nothing about them aside for their visual appearance and presumed “identity”?

I haven’t written anything for a long ass time and it’s starting to piss me off. Usually I go through all of these preliminary emotions before I start writing but I figure it’d be interested to get that much deeper into the mind of the writer for once. See if you can follow me along for the ride.

What follows in a, well actually, I’m not sure yet. Hopefully it will be what seems to be an obscure rambling of thoughts that tie up nice and fashionably in the end. It’s going to cover a lot of topics, many of which I’ve probably covered by now. I guess you can say I’m easing into a sort of mood. Unfortunately, this may lead to less diversity. Seeing how I change my mind up on what I plan on doing with my life about once a month, although keeping it along a certain topic/guideline, I can only hope the same will mirror in my writing. For those of you who didn’t get that: If my writing starts to get too repetitive I’ll change it because that’s the kind of guy I am.

I figure there’s a bunch of different ways to go about life. Despite this being my original idea based on everything that’s happened to me, I’ll cite the nature vs nurture argument for safety. These past few weeks I’ve been enjoying life to the fullest, despite finding out in humanities class that we’re all just vehicles for genes. Yea, life is meaningless..but that does allow oneself a lot more time to have fun. Think about it.

The idea of making one’s own destiny always seemed farfetched and magical, but it’s not. I’ve chosen to be optimistic and happy for these past few weeks because the ones before them were good too. But eventually it falls into a swell when I realize I’m only being happy for the sake of being happy. Then something magical happens, ie something good you didn’t see coming, and you’re legitimately happy again. It’s a nice cycle.

Theses little tid bits of joy can arise from almost anything. Hanging out with a six year old for hours upon hours (we’re talking 12) or being able to talk to friends and loved ones, even if it’s a non-symbiotic (there’s definitely an actual word for this term) relationship. Kicking back, relaxing and accomplishing no great feet for a day can be fun too. Sure, maybe it’s a wasted day, but it’d better than wasting a day studying for math and science, especially when you have no interest in it.

Speaking of which, there has to be something wrong if so many students are studying courses and going into fields that they have no interest in. We’re here for a short time, not a long time, so have a good time to paraphrase Trooper (that’s what I think the reworking of the lyrics should be, IMHO). Life’s a sweet game that we get to play one time. Why should we waste so much time of it banging our heads against doors we don’t even care about opening when we can easily walk through the ones that interest us? Personally, I blame the parents.

I think one of my life goals is to create the perfect Utopia. They always have flaws. Getting rid of money, and the whole idea of monetary value would be the first thing I’d do. After that it’d be religion. If you need to talk to god, get spiritual. Make your own path to ascertain divine righteousness (whoa, good words). That’s what it’ supposed to be about, no? Connecting on a personal level with your beliefs. We tend to forget the word “organized” when we talk about religion. Think about it.

That about ends it, guess I don’t accomplish my goal of creating a full cycle of thought, unless you count me going over this and the fact that I ended the “first” and “last” paragraphs with “Think about it.” But here’s the beauty. Tonight, I sought to write something, and that’s what I did. I didn’t focus on the glamour of syntax and order, nor was I determined to create magnificent words of wisdom. I wanted make a connection between my brain and the reader, and even if I didn’t do it the official way, I did it my way, I’m happy with the outcome, and that’s what counts as a writer. Think about it.

Buddha’s Belly

I always lock the door when I go to the bathroom. I have to assume that this stated back when I was much younger, probably due to the fear that someone would walk in on. Since then it’s grown into a pure habit. Even now, as I enter my bathroom and close the door, I turn to make sure the door is closed and already the latch is fastened. I’ve become some sort of door locking prodigy.

I remember talking long ago to someone about me and bathrooms and how comforting they are; just you, a sink, a toilet, a bathing mechanism, and a mirror. It’s the perfect setting for “me time”. No computers or phones, no bells or whistles. I suppose that’s another reason I keep the door locked. The bathroom is like my own private study. I can stay there for as long as I want without fear of being disrupted.

The bathroom allows time for reflection. Sure, I have breaks during the day, be it riding on the bus or walking around, but often those times are clouded with music or setting up lists or working out ideas that have to do with school and life. The bathroom allows time to think beyond that, to focus on the trivial, the mundane, even the magnificent. Bathroom dreaming is one of my favourite sports.

Maybe it has something to do with the readily accessible water. Finally, we can full control this cornerstone element. The sound of running water is ever sweet, and what more can you ask for than a personal waterfall subject to your choice of temperature. Perhaps it takes us back to a primitive state when we were more in touch with the nature around us; humans and dolphins do have a unique relationship.

Whatever the case, locking the door ensures privacy and a sense of safety and comfort. Even when I’m home alone and all the doors are locked, when I shower the bathroom door gets locked as well. I figure I can at least finish my peaceful time in my personal sanctuary before falling victim to home invasion if the case ever arises.

oh stupid stupid teacher
i cant even stand your voice
all you do is jabber
all you say is fuzzy noise

just a few more weeks dear teacher
then of you there’ll be no more
but i’ll continue writing
just as i’ve done before

fyb

And So I Was Born

After arielle and Kim I had to change my life. I wasn’t happy with who I was, nor with where I was in life. A began a process to remodel myself. Too many times had I let love get the best of me, and it would always lead to a personal downfall. I’d put the girls I’d admire on pedestals, sometimes crushing over them for years without ever actually speaking to them. This was the first thing that had to change.

I was going to rid myself of any interest in girls and down play my emotions as much as I could. This somewhat backfired that still, to do this, I can’t fully let myself go and like anyone as much as I’d want to, but it’s a safety mechanism put into place for good reason. I decided that instead of looking for girls, I’d just wait, sit back, and live my life. During the next few months, it was about modeling the new me, not seeking endeavors.

My hair had grown long and wild since camp started and I decided to keep it that way. No more uniform haircuts. That year I got more into drugs too. Smoking weed once a week grew into smoking on pedagogical days as well. Soon, it was a weekly affair between Eric, Nik and me.

It was grade 10 and I couldn’t take working as hard as I’d always done anymore. Too much time was wasted preparing, not enough time dedicated to taking action. Classes became my playground as I exampled my humour and charisma through classroom antics and presentations. Science class with Eric always became a back and forth of laughter that even Ms. Wall enjoyed since we were getting good marks. I renamed Ms Seton Ms Satan and Nik and I took that class to the ground. The Bean Trees became a joke and our presentation was the punch line. The three of us got to break in Mr. Chouinard too, loving Super Strogoff and taking down the French News project. I had never succeeded in collapsing a teacher into tears before. History class with Ms K saw the birth of Trevnar, obnoxious defender of the universe who would magically answer questions every now and again to save the world. Our flash movie on the Aztec civilization took gold. And math class with Mr. Tessler was a time for Turner and I to continue and develop our relationship. By the end of the year, I was a new man.

A champion in fact. I ran for house head and beat out my rival of 4 years in the process. I opened my speech by commenting on the heat, then tore off my shirt to expose the house shirt I was wearing underneath. By that point I had more than won.

It’s our day off. My 3 friends and I are sitting in a diner near the camp, all of us having come hhere for the sole purpose of buying pie. The bill arrives and we’re about to pay when suddenly the lady behind us casually asks us what age we are. We all look at each other so I start by saying 16, figuring honesty is the best policy. The other two 17 years olds say their age then my other 16 year old friend says that he’s 17. I’m hurt after being so blatantly cheated.

The lady goes on to immediately tell us how her very smart and attractive daughter is in town, on break, with her friends, and that they are staying at the family cottage. Throughtout the conversation, we go through details of who we are, where we came from and our names. She continues by giving us a slip of paper with the names of her girl and her 3 friends, as well as the daughters cell phone number and email address. Knowing we must leave, we slow down the convo so we can get out, despite being incredibly shocked at what has just happened. Were amazed and dumbfounded. We agree amongst ourselves that we will tell no one about this until it is over. We call the ordeal Black Raven. Throughout the next few days we try to contact the daughter (Rachel) whenever we can, inbetween periods, during spares, after lunch, etc.

Finally, we establish contact and things are a go go. She suggests meeting up where we met her mother: Morgan’s Kountry Kitchen, at 11:00 Friday night, The night comes, us boys get dressed, while other staff question us as to what the special occasion is. We keep our mouths shut even though one project member had leaked the information to a few individuals. We knew that the spreading would only get worst, being located at a Jewish sleep away camp. We drive out, having borrowed someone’s car. On our way to the diner we see a cop car who’s pulled over a van so we decide to avoid the area for a while and fill up on gas. After the gas we head to Morgan’s parking lot. As soon as were in lights turn on behind us as we’re sandwiched between a cop car and the end of the lot.

Two cops come out and this guy is a dick dweeb. He asks us for identification, who’s car it is and what were doing. He then goes on to give us the whole treatment; do you have drugs, do you have alcohol, why doesnt that boy (yours truly) have any identification on him, are u wanted by anyone, governemntwise or criminaly..etc. We explain to him our situation and he doesnt give a rats ass. Instead, he begins a lecture on the dangers of the situation that we’ve put ourselves into: meeting strangers in a dark parking lot and such. Yowards the end of his story he gets back to being a dick dweeb. He tells us he doesnt like us or our reason for being here one bit. In fact, he doesnt even like us in his jurisdiction and he doesnt want to see us again. His last words; “So I guess what I’m trying to say is, (brief pause) hit the road.”

With that, we head back to gas station, knowing he can’t get us into any trouble since we’ve done nothing wrong. We call the girls to tell them about the situation. They already know about it; They were the van that was being interrogated by the same cop when we first drove in. On top of that, theyre halfway back to the family cottage and they’re not coming back. The cop’s story managed to spook them out of the date. Thanks to this dick dweeb cop Black Raven crashed and burned into what would’ve been one of the greatest stories ever told.