glasses
i have always had bad vision. i think its from reading books 3 inches from my nose. when i got glasses early this year i suddenly realized that everybody was right: i wasn’t seeing the whole picture. it was cool that everything was so sharp, not the fuzzy outline of moving colors. but it did make my head hurt.
makes me wonder though, how much of things have i taken for granted when it came my opinion. i’m not saying that i could influence worlds to stop war but still. i do have the tendency to be hurtful when it comes to criticisms. how many times have i dished out the bad taste in my mind based on something i could hardly figure out myself? that made my head hurt.
instead of walking faster i tend to walk slowly thanks to the glasses.
Saturday, June 26, 2004
page break
out the window the bright greens and the orange blanket of the sky is pulled away to reveal the gray and then that pulls away to the speckled black.
the stories are all over the place. the fat woman who got on the bus at the corner; the man who fell asleep after a drunken night in front of the doors to a computer school; the girl who keeps picking on the flowers outside my house; the guy i know who picks up women like flowers but throws them away just as easily when he tires of the scent; the woman who i watch out of the corner of my eye and have a crush on; the man who lectured me on integrity and i caught stealing company money; the woman on tv who wants everybody to just get along; the guy who selling food out of a pedicab; the person with one hand on the mouse staring too close at the moving pixels that tear pages away from his life; the woman who feels her fart doesn’t stink; the teacher who taught well and never wanted anything more to do; the student who learned later that he REALLY should have taken down notes when the older people gave him the cliff notes to life; the guitar player i’m listening to; i’m sure you’ve got one too.
mix them match them let the story play out. at some point or other everybody plays the protagonist, antagonist, foil, comic relief . . . we can’t always have the lead role. you always have to expect slow days.
if you think your life is boring now just wait till they seal the cover on you.
out the window the bright greens and the orange blanket of the sky is pulled away to reveal the gray and then that pulls away to the speckled black.
the stories are all over the place. the fat woman who got on the bus at the corner; the man who fell asleep after a drunken night in front of the doors to a computer school; the girl who keeps picking on the flowers outside my house; the guy i know who picks up women like flowers but throws them away just as easily when he tires of the scent; the woman who i watch out of the corner of my eye and have a crush on; the man who lectured me on integrity and i caught stealing company money; the woman on tv who wants everybody to just get along; the guy who selling food out of a pedicab; the person with one hand on the mouse staring too close at the moving pixels that tear pages away from his life; the woman who feels her fart doesn’t stink; the teacher who taught well and never wanted anything more to do; the student who learned later that he REALLY should have taken down notes when the older people gave him the cliff notes to life; the guitar player i’m listening to; i’m sure you’ve got one too.
mix them match them let the story play out. at some point or other everybody plays the protagonist, antagonist, foil, comic relief . . . we can’t always have the lead role. you always have to expect slow days.
if you think your life is boring now just wait till they seal the cover on you.
well here it goes
comfortable in front of the flickering screen, this time its not work. i’ve had this feeling before when thoughts would flow out through my fingers. slowly at first then the torrent comes rushing. i hear the noise like a heavenly roar before the downpour. the sound tells me of weight of speed . . . for some reason i’m happy and scared. damming it up is always useless, i end up drowning in something.
everyone sees things through glasses smoked by each of our biases. is anybody really objective? i question motives when people speak to me. i know that we shouldn’t but i’m cautious that maybe someone’s out to hurt me; get something out of me. i’ve looked ahead i don’t want to be the person who feels used or hoodwinked after the dust settles. i want to be the person laughing at the sun, feeling good about doing something for somebody else. and yes i also think about what i can get out of a situation. looking out for number 1. not very often i hope. its not much of a life always looking behind my back, checking for stab wounds.
a flash of lightning. the screen flickers again. the taste in my mouth drowned out by the cold. i’m always sitting down and always somewhere else.
comfortable in front of the flickering screen, this time its not work. i’ve had this feeling before when thoughts would flow out through my fingers. slowly at first then the torrent comes rushing. i hear the noise like a heavenly roar before the downpour. the sound tells me of weight of speed . . . for some reason i’m happy and scared. damming it up is always useless, i end up drowning in something.
everyone sees things through glasses smoked by each of our biases. is anybody really objective? i question motives when people speak to me. i know that we shouldn’t but i’m cautious that maybe someone’s out to hurt me; get something out of me. i’ve looked ahead i don’t want to be the person who feels used or hoodwinked after the dust settles. i want to be the person laughing at the sun, feeling good about doing something for somebody else. and yes i also think about what i can get out of a situation. looking out for number 1. not very often i hope. its not much of a life always looking behind my back, checking for stab wounds.
a flash of lightning. the screen flickers again. the taste in my mouth drowned out by the cold. i’m always sitting down and always somewhere else.
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
once there was this geek 1
once there was this geek. he believed that he went through life in a waking dream state where he watched himself take a different path than the decision he actually made. he would watch in amazement as he complained about the measely amount of fries they served him at mcdonalds while he slowly walked to an empty table resigned to the half filled fries carton. he's not aware of it but he's about to change into a different man, a man who will not take it sitting down when they serve him an amount of fries not equal to the cost at which he paid. it'll be about a girl at the office. its always about a girl.
our geek is a creature of habit. he wakes up to the sound of the same alarm clock that he had since grade school when playing family computer games late at night forced him to rely on other means to get his ass out of bed. we can rest assured that if ever he has to replace the clock he will buy one that sounds eerily alike. upon closer inspection of the fabric making up all his office wear pants they have different tinged colours of charcoal gray. from afar they all look the same. if the office didn't have different colours for long sleeve shirt tops the males had to wear he would have five white ones in his closet. he has only one pair of black leather shoes that look like the were left over from his grade school days. his car is an excellently maintained volkswagen beetle, the only point of both envy and frustration of his male co-workers. envy because of his ride, frustration because he seems unaware of his luck. a car that was handed down to him as a graduation present from an equally unaware uncle. he sees it as a free car and nothing else.
and yes, he still lives with his parents.
once there was this geek. he believed that he went through life in a waking dream state where he watched himself take a different path than the decision he actually made. he would watch in amazement as he complained about the measely amount of fries they served him at mcdonalds while he slowly walked to an empty table resigned to the half filled fries carton. he's not aware of it but he's about to change into a different man, a man who will not take it sitting down when they serve him an amount of fries not equal to the cost at which he paid. it'll be about a girl at the office. its always about a girl.
our geek is a creature of habit. he wakes up to the sound of the same alarm clock that he had since grade school when playing family computer games late at night forced him to rely on other means to get his ass out of bed. we can rest assured that if ever he has to replace the clock he will buy one that sounds eerily alike. upon closer inspection of the fabric making up all his office wear pants they have different tinged colours of charcoal gray. from afar they all look the same. if the office didn't have different colours for long sleeve shirt tops the males had to wear he would have five white ones in his closet. he has only one pair of black leather shoes that look like the were left over from his grade school days. his car is an excellently maintained volkswagen beetle, the only point of both envy and frustration of his male co-workers. envy because of his ride, frustration because he seems unaware of his luck. a car that was handed down to him as a graduation present from an equally unaware uncle. he sees it as a free car and nothing else.
and yes, he still lives with his parents.
Tuesday, September 09, 2003
mouse's wheel
i feel like the background character in somebody else's novel or movie. i'm the character who seems to have little impact, imparting little nuggets of dialogue once every twelve episodes and then hanging around in the fuzzy background of the main player. no part of the story seems to ever take place at my house. it is just taken for granted that i do go home and do have parents which i talk about rarely. for all anybody ever knows, a janitor probably comes around, switches my power off then stores me in a closet. then i am pulled out, dressed up and cleaned up just in time for my messy hair make another appearance.
so this is what being a character foil is like. was i so used to being in the middle of a spotlight? am i that arrogant to be thinking that the world, if ever, did revolve around me. am i missing having people around me who gave me purpose like the friend character that i used to be? am i lamenting hanging around people who treat me like some comedic buffoon? i used to like being the buffoon because nobody would take that seriously. now it seems to be my main purpose within the new friendships. its hard changing roles midstream i guess.
all the other characters seem to have something important going on with their lives. i just bought a new pair of kicks, and no one to shoot around with. woohoo.
the gang's all gone and i'm still drinking my warm beer, waiting for somebody to show up.
i feel like the background character in somebody else's novel or movie. i'm the character who seems to have little impact, imparting little nuggets of dialogue once every twelve episodes and then hanging around in the fuzzy background of the main player. no part of the story seems to ever take place at my house. it is just taken for granted that i do go home and do have parents which i talk about rarely. for all anybody ever knows, a janitor probably comes around, switches my power off then stores me in a closet. then i am pulled out, dressed up and cleaned up just in time for my messy hair make another appearance.
so this is what being a character foil is like. was i so used to being in the middle of a spotlight? am i that arrogant to be thinking that the world, if ever, did revolve around me. am i missing having people around me who gave me purpose like the friend character that i used to be? am i lamenting hanging around people who treat me like some comedic buffoon? i used to like being the buffoon because nobody would take that seriously. now it seems to be my main purpose within the new friendships. its hard changing roles midstream i guess.
all the other characters seem to have something important going on with their lives. i just bought a new pair of kicks, and no one to shoot around with. woohoo.
the gang's all gone and i'm still drinking my warm beer, waiting for somebody to show up.
Wednesday, June 11, 2003
Haven’t arrived yet
Everyday I move around going to work and coming back home. I eat sleep and dream the occasional dream. Sometimes I talk in my sleep. My brother says I talk incoherent nonsense. He says that I usually blurt out sentences after he asks me some simple questions. He tried to have a conversation with me while I was asleep. Whatever made him think that it would work. Maybe he was bored playing around with video games that he decided to mess with my dreams.
I like dreams where I don’t follow some unseen script. I like the ones where I decide where to go and what to do and everything around me unfolds like a movie I’ve never seen before. A choose your own adventure dream.
Those dreams where I get whipped from one situation to the next make me feel sick when I wake up. Even if I were the star and won the day it would still give me headaches knowing that every step I took I was just following my own feet to where they were going. I guess I hate the idea of following directions even in my sleep.
Everyday I move around going to work and coming back home. I eat sleep and dream the occasional dream. Sometimes I talk in my sleep. My brother says I talk incoherent nonsense. He says that I usually blurt out sentences after he asks me some simple questions. He tried to have a conversation with me while I was asleep. Whatever made him think that it would work. Maybe he was bored playing around with video games that he decided to mess with my dreams.
I like dreams where I don’t follow some unseen script. I like the ones where I decide where to go and what to do and everything around me unfolds like a movie I’ve never seen before. A choose your own adventure dream.
Those dreams where I get whipped from one situation to the next make me feel sick when I wake up. Even if I were the star and won the day it would still give me headaches knowing that every step I took I was just following my own feet to where they were going. I guess I hate the idea of following directions even in my sleep.
Bouncing from nowhere
You know how when you here echoes they don’t sound anything like what you originally said, a mutated mumbling of a word. Sometimes memories can be the same.
I have these jumbled memories of playing around the school as a young boy, exploring empty rooms. I’d be walking through classrooms empty of the children they were built for. Blackboards dusty from all the writing-erasing-rewriting that goes on. I remember not finding anybody else: no teachers, no students. And I’d be happy about being there.
I do remember one time I did that and was scared out of my skin by the moving shadows of plants outside the windows and the odd sound a strong gust of wind made through the hallway. Suddenly shutting doors and odd whispers are what made me intereste in basketball in the first place. Those empty rooms with their ghosts are the reason I took up basketball and broke my arm. That’s still better than walking through there alone.
Sometimes memories are actually clearer than the actual event.
Ever had that feeling when you just realized the next day what a stupid thing it was to say what you did the day before? I feel like hiding in a hole and never coming up for air.
You know how when you here echoes they don’t sound anything like what you originally said, a mutated mumbling of a word. Sometimes memories can be the same.
I have these jumbled memories of playing around the school as a young boy, exploring empty rooms. I’d be walking through classrooms empty of the children they were built for. Blackboards dusty from all the writing-erasing-rewriting that goes on. I remember not finding anybody else: no teachers, no students. And I’d be happy about being there.
I do remember one time I did that and was scared out of my skin by the moving shadows of plants outside the windows and the odd sound a strong gust of wind made through the hallway. Suddenly shutting doors and odd whispers are what made me intereste in basketball in the first place. Those empty rooms with their ghosts are the reason I took up basketball and broke my arm. That’s still better than walking through there alone.
Sometimes memories are actually clearer than the actual event.
Ever had that feeling when you just realized the next day what a stupid thing it was to say what you did the day before? I feel like hiding in a hole and never coming up for air.
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