This isn't intended to be too morbid. We've been talking a lot about death in one of my classes, so naturally I've started thinking about the subject.
I don't think I want to be buried in a graveyard. The whole funeral home industry just preys on the stupid decisions people make when they're grieving, and to put a dead body in a cushioned, thousand dollar coffin makes no sense to me. I'd like to be cremated.
But where to put the ashes?
Not in a vase. To be kept in a vase on a fireplace mantelpiece would just be weird, and I don't think people would like walking past that thing. We cremated my dog when I was 12 or so and scattered her ashes around my grandparents' cabin since she loved the place so much. I think I'd like the ashes to be dumped at the roots of a newly planted tree. I could grow into it, become part of it, attain some sort of life after death if this is all there is. Better than rotting in a box.
The finale of Silence is coming.
Really.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
No. Don't do that.
I've had a couple things on my mind, some of them for a while, some of them just recently.
One: when the hell did the lolcat meme become something people can use for pictures of things other than cats? Furthermore, when did proper grammar become acceptable in the captions? For instance:
That's not a cat, that's a fucking barbeque. Nor is it the least bit funny. I did not lol. I did not even crack a smile. The appeal of the lolcat lies in 1) cats doing weird things, and 2) the photos being accompanied by equally ridiculous language. And yet 3146 people on I Can Has Cheezburger? think this is worthy of 4 and a half stars. This is simply madness.
Even worse than this recent spate of non-cat lolcats on the website are the people that comment on the photos. Skimmie writes- "Tank u cweenmj!! I is in shawk at my fursst nawt secunds…only just woke upz, went frum bed 2 pooter and chekked da burgurs. I reelly needs caawfee right now, but can we sellbarate with white russians?!!!" Jesus Christ. I can't even read that. I can't vocalize what's so wrong about it, but it reminds me of the first time my grandma used "lol" in an email. It was just out of place. There is a fine line between a humorous misspelling and a completely overwrought, failed attempt at humor, this horrendous little paragraph belongs in the latter category.
This, however, is exactly how a lolcat should work:
This has all the ingredients of comic greatness: a pun on pop culture, a cat with a really cracked out expression on its face, and a perfect mix of internet vernacular: not too much, not too little. No more barbeques, no more chairs, and (as much as I enjoyed American Psycho), no credit card machines, kthnx.
One: when the hell did the lolcat meme become something people can use for pictures of things other than cats? Furthermore, when did proper grammar become acceptable in the captions? For instance:
That's not a cat, that's a fucking barbeque. Nor is it the least bit funny. I did not lol. I did not even crack a smile. The appeal of the lolcat lies in 1) cats doing weird things, and 2) the photos being accompanied by equally ridiculous language. And yet 3146 people on I Can Has Cheezburger? think this is worthy of 4 and a half stars. This is simply madness.
Even worse than this recent spate of non-cat lolcats on the website are the people that comment on the photos. Skimmie writes- "Tank u cweenmj!! I is in shawk at my fursst nawt secunds…only just woke upz, went frum bed 2 pooter and chekked da burgurs. I reelly needs caawfee right now, but can we sellbarate with white russians?!!!" Jesus Christ. I can't even read that. I can't vocalize what's so wrong about it, but it reminds me of the first time my grandma used "lol" in an email. It was just out of place. There is a fine line between a humorous misspelling and a completely overwrought, failed attempt at humor, this horrendous little paragraph belongs in the latter category.
This, however, is exactly how a lolcat should work:
This has all the ingredients of comic greatness: a pun on pop culture, a cat with a really cracked out expression on its face, and a perfect mix of internet vernacular: not too much, not too little. No more barbeques, no more chairs, and (as much as I enjoyed American Psycho), no credit card machines, kthnx.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Horror
I'm looking for a red Jack.
A red Jack in a forest of 52 cards. Could be anywhere.
Coooooome on red Jack. I need that to go on the black Queen so I can move that black ten off of that pile and uncover some more cards. Running out of options fast, that Jack is going to be my only salvation.
Maybe I should go back to reading... No, I should finish this first.
A reference librarian comes in with two friends, one starts looking through the shelves for a book. A few keyboards clack quietly in the distance. The librarian bids the duo farewell, saying,
"I'm going to be really brave now and take the stairs."
Her hair is grey, her face drooping and wrinkled. Her careless little sentence smacks me in the face.
My god.
To be so old as to find stairs threatening. To be so used to a withered body as to make jokes about it in passing.
She ascends carefully, step by step, holding onto the hand railing, almost uncertain of her footing.
My heartbeat quickens. The awful, terrifying realization that I'll probably be in the same position in a scant few decades tugs at the corners of my eyes. Something reaches its cold, clawed fingers into my stomach and squeezes.
Pity mixed with remorse and dread, wish there was a word for that. I go back to my computer screen, wondering how many untold days of my life I've squandered playing Solitaire.
-------
Silence Part 2 is forthcoming.
A red Jack in a forest of 52 cards. Could be anywhere.
Coooooome on red Jack. I need that to go on the black Queen so I can move that black ten off of that pile and uncover some more cards. Running out of options fast, that Jack is going to be my only salvation.
Maybe I should go back to reading... No, I should finish this first.
A reference librarian comes in with two friends, one starts looking through the shelves for a book. A few keyboards clack quietly in the distance. The librarian bids the duo farewell, saying,
"I'm going to be really brave now and take the stairs."
Her hair is grey, her face drooping and wrinkled. Her careless little sentence smacks me in the face.
My god.
To be so old as to find stairs threatening. To be so used to a withered body as to make jokes about it in passing.
She ascends carefully, step by step, holding onto the hand railing, almost uncertain of her footing.
My heartbeat quickens. The awful, terrifying realization that I'll probably be in the same position in a scant few decades tugs at the corners of my eyes. Something reaches its cold, clawed fingers into my stomach and squeezes.
Pity mixed with remorse and dread, wish there was a word for that. I go back to my computer screen, wondering how many untold days of my life I've squandered playing Solitaire.
-------
Silence Part 2 is forthcoming.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Silence, Part 1
Here's something a little more uplifting than my last couple of posts. A bit sentimental maybe, but I've wanted to write it for a while.
_____________
I excused myself for a few seconds at the after-party and stepped outside onto the icy streets of Brattleboro, Vermont. I needed a little time to be alone, collect my thoughts, and digest the events of the past weekend –indeed, the past month– and this was about the only opportunity I was going to get. It was cold outside, and my sweater wasn’t quite enough to keep the bite out, but I didn’t mind. I settled up against a wall, folded my arms, and thought back.
Every time I try and piece together the ridiculous series of coincidences that brought me to this a cappella concert in this small Vermont town I can’t help but smile and laugh a little. How improbable, how mind-bendingly unlikely. I suppose we should begin in 2003. It was late summer, I was a Sophomore in high school. I’d been playing the guitar for two or three years, and my lessons with my guitar teacher were almost purely centered around jazz, so I figured that auditioning for the Skyline High School Jazz Band wouldn’t be a bad idea. After all, what better way to improve myself musically than by applying the chords and concepts I was learning?
My dad dropped me off outside the high school, and I proceeded inside, guitar and amp in tow. I couldn’t read music very well, so I was pretty nervous about making an ass of myself in front of the band director. I walked up to a table outside the music room and asked, in a very sophomoric fashion,
“Is this the Jazz Band audition?”
The guy sitting at the table, who I later learned was the president of the school’s barbershop choir, looked at me for a second and said,
“Uh, no, this is the choir audition.”
“Oh.”
I stood there for a second, feeling incredibly dumb. Straps biting into my hand, I wasn't sure whether to turn around and leave or stay.
“Would you like to audition anyway?” The choir president asked. I agreed. Setting my things down in the hallway, I walked into the choir room.
Seated at the top of an amphitheater-style series of risers was the choir director. I made a sheepish hello. I, of course, didn’t have anything to sing, and so I sang “America the Beautiful” with the accompanist. Very, very badly. After this the choir director had me clap out a few rhythms and sing back a few series of notes. He remarked that I had a good ear after I sang back the notes to him, but I figured my overall dismal performance was going to be a deal breaker. I thanked him for the audition and walked back to the car, completely embarrassed.
A week or so later I got a call. Apparently I had made it into the barbershop choir, the Troubadours. I’d be singing bass.
My time with the Troubadours –then Concert Choir, and eventually Madrigals in my senior year– came to define my life. Walking into the choir room on the first day of class I barely had a grasp on what I was doing. If I wasn’t surrounded by other basses I’d lose my part completely. But I slowly learned to distinguish my part from the other three parts, picked up on the musical conventions of the style, gained a sense for what different chords and harmonies felt like. By my senior year I was convinced that I wanted to pursue this in college, and looked for schools with good vocal performance programs. I eventually settled on Ithaca College in upstate New York.
_____________
I excused myself for a few seconds at the after-party and stepped outside onto the icy streets of Brattleboro, Vermont. I needed a little time to be alone, collect my thoughts, and digest the events of the past weekend –indeed, the past month– and this was about the only opportunity I was going to get. It was cold outside, and my sweater wasn’t quite enough to keep the bite out, but I didn’t mind. I settled up against a wall, folded my arms, and thought back.
Every time I try and piece together the ridiculous series of coincidences that brought me to this a cappella concert in this small Vermont town I can’t help but smile and laugh a little. How improbable, how mind-bendingly unlikely. I suppose we should begin in 2003. It was late summer, I was a Sophomore in high school. I’d been playing the guitar for two or three years, and my lessons with my guitar teacher were almost purely centered around jazz, so I figured that auditioning for the Skyline High School Jazz Band wouldn’t be a bad idea. After all, what better way to improve myself musically than by applying the chords and concepts I was learning?
My dad dropped me off outside the high school, and I proceeded inside, guitar and amp in tow. I couldn’t read music very well, so I was pretty nervous about making an ass of myself in front of the band director. I walked up to a table outside the music room and asked, in a very sophomoric fashion,
“Is this the Jazz Band audition?”
The guy sitting at the table, who I later learned was the president of the school’s barbershop choir, looked at me for a second and said,
“Uh, no, this is the choir audition.”
“Oh.”
I stood there for a second, feeling incredibly dumb. Straps biting into my hand, I wasn't sure whether to turn around and leave or stay.
“Would you like to audition anyway?” The choir president asked. I agreed. Setting my things down in the hallway, I walked into the choir room.
Seated at the top of an amphitheater-style series of risers was the choir director. I made a sheepish hello. I, of course, didn’t have anything to sing, and so I sang “America the Beautiful” with the accompanist. Very, very badly. After this the choir director had me clap out a few rhythms and sing back a few series of notes. He remarked that I had a good ear after I sang back the notes to him, but I figured my overall dismal performance was going to be a deal breaker. I thanked him for the audition and walked back to the car, completely embarrassed.
A week or so later I got a call. Apparently I had made it into the barbershop choir, the Troubadours. I’d be singing bass.
My time with the Troubadours –then Concert Choir, and eventually Madrigals in my senior year– came to define my life. Walking into the choir room on the first day of class I barely had a grasp on what I was doing. If I wasn’t surrounded by other basses I’d lose my part completely. But I slowly learned to distinguish my part from the other three parts, picked up on the musical conventions of the style, gained a sense for what different chords and harmonies felt like. By my senior year I was convinced that I wanted to pursue this in college, and looked for schools with good vocal performance programs. I eventually settled on Ithaca College in upstate New York.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Blind
We always eat lunch at the same time. It usually happens the same way. Sometimes I don't see her, but this time I sat precariously close to her favorite table. Maybe I'm getting a little masochistic, maybe I wanted to see if it would turn out differently.
I saw her things first, her bag, her coat, that scarf, and then one of her roommates sat down at the table. I said hello, sat down, stared at my food.
She set down a few things, and walked back to get something else.
Walked right past me. Not for the first time either, she's done this on a number of occasions. This time, like most of the others, she brushed right up against me.
Ignored, discarded, forgotten.
Insignificant, unimportant, unwanted.
How funny it is, making contact without making contact. It tears me apart, leaves me gasping, bleeding. It makes me want to gnash my teeth and growl. Imaginary fangs are bared, imaginary hackles stand on end, imaginary claws carve into the table. A terrifying howl, as substantial as smoke, rips through my throat and slashes through the air. I take a bite of my sandwich and sigh a silent, hopeless little sigh.
Go back in time a little, maybe a year and a half ago. She and I ate dinner every night, lunch at least five or six days a week. We'd watch movies, do our homework together in the library, take stupid pictures, head to Collegetown on Thursdays.
She was a friend.
I sit and think for a minute, get up, leave. I take the long way around so I don't have to see her. We cross paths anyway.
I meet her gaze. Her eyes dart away for a second, come back to greet mine. Pathetic. She gives me a smile, says hello. I give her an equally hollow smile, I don't dignify the response with words. That little jerk of her eyes told me everything I need to know.
If you don't want to look at me, I don't want to speak to you.
----------
Took a nap in the sun today, I thought about a lot of things. A band in the music building was practicing. I caught the occasional note from a soprano, mostly heard the percussion section, interspersed with little snippets of conversation from the people walking by below me. It was peaceful.
The wind blew my hair around a little, it brushed up delicately against my forehead. I concentrated for a bit, opened my eyes, and almost expected to see you standing over me, your fingers running through my hair. Maybe one day.
I saw her things first, her bag, her coat, that scarf, and then one of her roommates sat down at the table. I said hello, sat down, stared at my food.
She set down a few things, and walked back to get something else.
Walked right past me. Not for the first time either, she's done this on a number of occasions. This time, like most of the others, she brushed right up against me.
Ignored, discarded, forgotten.
Insignificant, unimportant, unwanted.
How funny it is, making contact without making contact. It tears me apart, leaves me gasping, bleeding. It makes me want to gnash my teeth and growl. Imaginary fangs are bared, imaginary hackles stand on end, imaginary claws carve into the table. A terrifying howl, as substantial as smoke, rips through my throat and slashes through the air. I take a bite of my sandwich and sigh a silent, hopeless little sigh.
Go back in time a little, maybe a year and a half ago. She and I ate dinner every night, lunch at least five or six days a week. We'd watch movies, do our homework together in the library, take stupid pictures, head to Collegetown on Thursdays.
She was a friend.
I sit and think for a minute, get up, leave. I take the long way around so I don't have to see her. We cross paths anyway.
I meet her gaze. Her eyes dart away for a second, come back to greet mine. Pathetic. She gives me a smile, says hello. I give her an equally hollow smile, I don't dignify the response with words. That little jerk of her eyes told me everything I need to know.
If you don't want to look at me, I don't want to speak to you.
----------
Took a nap in the sun today, I thought about a lot of things. A band in the music building was practicing. I caught the occasional note from a soprano, mostly heard the percussion section, interspersed with little snippets of conversation from the people walking by below me. It was peaceful.
The wind blew my hair around a little, it brushed up delicately against my forehead. I concentrated for a bit, opened my eyes, and almost expected to see you standing over me, your fingers running through my hair. Maybe one day.
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