Widdle. Crash. Bang.
Widdle. Crash. Bang.
Today, I saw a peace sign sticker on the rear window of a car with U.S Army plates. Fourth infantry division, it said; it’s funny how those who experience war are those most desirous for peace.
World’s full of cases like that, you just gotta go looking for them. We say things about things without ever truly experiencing those things, yet experience can land the things in the same piles. Thoughts travel consistent wavelengths.
I–I don’t know why the sun sets on the horizon, and I can’t tell you if it’ll rise again tomorrow. Much of what we base our knowledge on is formed of coincidence. Say the sky turned yellow tomorrow. Would we remark upon the event in educated soliloquies? Would we do much else but go about our days because, frankly, the sky is beyond our capabilities?
We believe the planet is under our control, that everything meant to occur does so only within our observation. Are we arrogant in that? Does our pride determine our power? We inhabit spaces, few of which are ours–and as for the rest–well, does a grassy field warrant immediate proprietorship?
Tomorrow, I’m not sure what I’ll see. Maybe the same thing, but probably not.
Photo Cred: ID 6058275 © Marcelo Poleze | Dreamstime.com
There’s something so strangely satisfying about Fall (or Autumn, if you’re a particularly fancy person). I can’t define it here; I don’t think anyone can really define it, too much of an immense task, in my opinion. The best I can do is throw a few sharp adjectives its way, hoping they stick–let’s see, uh: bittersweet, mildly fantastical, slightly spooky, cold, warm, loving, abrupt, careful, dangerous, joyful, magical. Ah, now we got something concrete, magical? Magic’s a complex concept, isn’t it? Well, sure, if you want to make it that way. For the sake of this post, K.I.S.S, or Keep It Simple, Sally. HA, and you thought I was gonna say stupid! Tricked you.
Fall is magical. How so? Gee, that’s a tough question, but only the hardest hitters…make the target? Yeah, smooth move, X-Lax, real intelligent, as if targets have anything to do with Fall. But maybe they do. I can’t say definitively that they don’t, so, as they say, the jury’s out on that one–and, y’know, I just talked to them, telling me they’re gonna be out for the next five hours, so, hey, that’s cool.
Now, I’m gonna stop pulling my swings (or is it throws?), and go all out. Fall is undefinable, BAM! whoah, how about that big dose of Truth, huh? but, and I want to preface this, if I may, with the concession that although Fall may be undefinable, it’s not entirely abstract. When I think of Fall, these thoughts proceed: carving Jack-O-Lanterns in the blistering cold, with a mug of Swiss Miss hot cocoa and stomping into carefully raked leaves, hearing them crinkle and crunch beneath my feet and pressing my gloves over my numbing cheeks to still the wind-inflicted pain within them and watching fog settle over an empty field, slithering around every grass stalk and tumbleweed in it and admiring a waxing, orange moon, a centerpiece in the sky’s constantly revised canvas and grasping handfuls of wrapped goodies out of plastic pumpkins and jittery animatronic hands and gathering around a food-laden table to just get a whiff of the pumpkin pie’s creamy filling, its flaky (and occasionally imitation-concrete) crust and being fulfilled and being pleased and feeling as if the weather can, like, channel your mood and sitting on a bench in some lonely place and watching leaves snap off tree branches and glide in a see-saw manner to the grass, crumpling.
It’s not perfect, Fall. It’s not even many people’s favorite season, but it’s Fall, guys, and how often do we get as much out of a season as we do this one?
Yes, you read that right. I have officially written 150 of these things, most of them bad, some of them good; but the point of this milestone, you see, is that I have been able to write 150 posts because I have such a huge follower base.
Gee, I’m pretty sure we’re near 100 followers now, in total. Crazy stuff. Wouldn’t have anticipated it a year ago, but there are those things you can never sense until they’re right on top of you, am I right? Eh?
But, to the topic of this post, quite a serious one, if I may say so:
I’ve been attending CAA meetings lately. For those who aren’t familiar with the acronym, it stands for Coffee Addicts Anonymous, maybe you haven’t heard it; and, honestly, I wouldn’t blame you. It’s situated out of my parent’s basement, so…small reception, heh.
I wasn’t always addicted to coffee, no, as a kid, I hated the crap. It tasted like black licorice combined with tar–although, that may have been due to my Dad’s preference for black coffee.
I’m more of a creamer man myself. That’s right, ladies. I’m buddy-buddy with Coffee-Mate.
The addiction started off harmless, like a Daddy Long Legs, then, it…oh, it’s difficult to say…it took over my mornings, filled my stomach, and–and, it made me have to use the little boy’s room quite a few more times than usual.
Oh, man, I need a breather. I can hardly talk about it without feeling the urge.
Quick, someone grab a liter of Prune Juice!
[One hour, and one big, big, big burp, later]
All right, we’re good now. I have quenched my thirst with the worst possible drink–oh, wait, that’s orange juice, duh.
We may now proceed with open questions from the audience:
How many, uh, coffee cups do you consume a day?
Tough question, pal. I’d have to say three…dozen.
What is your favorite type of coffee?
Whatever’s in the pot, babe; and, hey, shoot me your number. We’ll get together, have coffee.
How long is it going to take you to realize no one is actually asking questions?
What a twat that guy was, huh? I made sure he was kicked out of the auditorium, so he’s not gonna be bothering us any longer. There are just no decent people anymore, ‘cept for you guys; you guys are cool.
Like coffee. Coffee’s cool, unless it’s hot.
Use that for your next pick-up line, guys. You can credit me later–with a check for 100 grand, addressed to Thoughts of A Southpaw; but, really, it’s no biggie.
Otherwise, keep it rocking, my people.
150 posts strong, and still rolling!
Photo Credit: Tumblr, I believe…
I’ve been upset about my innocence for a long time–you know, that look in your eyes that just screams inexperienced and optimistic; you haven’t hit the harsh realities of life yet, and instead you’re going along as if everything is doodlie-doo, happy times.
Now, I’m not saying I dislike that I’m innocent, only I am, in a way, aren’t I? Perhaps I’m really tired of people underestimating me, seeing me as a kid who doesn’t know what life is, when, truly, life is what you make of it.
Sure, sounds cliche, but it does have relevance. Life is never the same for anyone; there’s always going to be differences, just as there are no people exactly alike. My life so far has been life. These past eighteen years were not spent in a vacuum, and there is no Real World, once you leave school.
C’mon, people, the world is the world. Known that since friggin’ Galileo’s time, and even beyond then…yeah….
I am innocent. I will not deny it. But am I the lesser for it? No. Do I not have as full a grasp on life as others? Sure. When you’re eighteen, you don’t typically know much; however, you still know enough to be–well, you, and, hell, that’s all you have to be.
No one’s making the rules here.
You are you, and there’s not much to change that.
It seems, though, if someone has not gone through the ringer at least a few times, has not accomplished the necessary requirements attributed to being an adult, then they, or their voices, are not worth the time of day.
Take kids, for example, the people we want to keep innocent in this world–but, that’s it, isn’t it? No one wants to listen to kids, to see what insights they have to offer; and, in doing so, they are missing out on valuable perspectives that could well change the world.
Innocence, and age, for that matter, shouldn’t be this restricting factor, or an inquiring face to turn away; no, are you kidding? Both of them have importance–both of them are crucial to understanding what the hell all us humans are trying to accomplish in these lives of ours.
Everyone matters, not only a few, because to limit is to inhibit further knowledge.
Yes, I know what you’re all thinking. I am such a heartless Scrooge, or, you know, whatever they call the equivalent of Ebenezer Scrooge on Halloween night. Has that ever been a thing?
Wouldn’t you know it, though? It was my first time scaring people on Halloween, rather than choosing to tread the streets in search of king-sized candy bars and gummy Krabby Patties.
I had not originally planned to scare anyone; in fact, the only thing I had really planned was sitting on the porch and looking creepy–if you got a good look at the canvas mask on my head, then you’ll know that it is no beautiful spectacle.
It was an accident that I scared anyone. See, I was sitting on the porch, candy bowl lying on my gloved hands–one kid pointed out the illusion didn’t work if my bare hands were visible–and attempting to master a Robot Pose, one of absolute stillness, no breathing, either.
These three girls, otherwise known as my first victims, came running up the steps, and they were quite the sight. One was a princess, another an astronaut, I think, and the last was dressed as Spider-Man–hey, why not?
They approached the porch warily, still wondering whether or not I was an animatronic; and eventually, they all decided I was a fake, a dummy set out to hold the candy.
Spider-Man said, “If that thing jumps out at me, I am going to die.”
Of course, where I had at first decided not to do anything, hearing Spider-Man tempted me.
Now, you’re all thinking, jeez, what a major asshole; he wants to scare kids?
In my defense, I did not know how badly I was going to scare them.
A little preface:
Before these girls appeared, a trio of middle schoolers had come to trick or treat; and, my God, were these middle schoolers mean: not mean in the general sense, but, you know, mean. They thought me an animatronic at first sight, and one of them stepped on my bare foot to see how I would react.
Yeah. Little jerk.
While grabbing their candy, the middle schoolers asked me how much candy they could have. I gave no answer, as it would have ruined the illusion; and so, one answered with, “oh, infinite amount?” and scooped a handful of candy into his freaking pillow case.
I started holding up two fingers to other trick-or-treaters to signify how much candy was allowed. Each time it was a slow movement, since I had to move my hand from underneath the bowl and raise my arm, two fingers pointing–but, I gotta say, the slowness did not inhibit the amount of fear I instilled into those girls.
They were reaching into the candy bowl, heads bowed, when I moved my hand and held up the two fingers. Spider-Man grabbed a Reese’s PB cup, glanced out of the corner of her eye, and screamed–well, to be fair, the three girls all screamed at the same time and ran from the porch, without so much as taking their candy with them.
Their parents on the street laughed at their distress, asking them if they got their candy, while I laughed quietly beneath my mask.
The parents persuaded the girls to go back and get candy–thankfully, my mom came outside and calmed each of them down with three pieces of candy.
Boy, was that experience both exhilarating and tragic.
Tragic, because I probably scarred those little girls.
Exhilarating, because I probably gave those little girls a genuine Halloween experience.
Is there a finite rule to this? If so, I have never heard of it; in fact, I think of it as more of a guideline than a rule.
That’s what people always say, isn’t it?
Well, I mean, they’re not wrong. Not saying that…
Ah, trick or treating, what a fun way to spend the spookiest night of the year. You run yourself ragged chasing down rumors of king-sized candy bars, give yourself a stomachache, and close out the night puking in the toilet.
No? Is that not what you guys do?
Though I have spent my life on the safe “treat” side of the equation, I confess an admiration to those who dare to “trick,” and possibly be the fodder for the chainsaw-wielding maniac living just a few blocks off Sanity Avenue. Yeah. Throw your toilet paper. Your ass’ll be regretting it later.
The biggest argument here, I think, is whether or not there comes a time when trick or treating is restricted to those of a certain age. Is it 15, or 23? Nine, perhaps six? Are we inhumane enough to deny a bubbly five year old the pleasures of receiving a nutritious Nature Valley bar on their first Halloween?
My fellow people, I do believe we all know the answer to this question.
And if any of would care to share it, I would love to hear. Seriously. I have no idea.
I have stopped trick or treating as of last year. Why? ‘Cause I walk around enough as is, what with being a dishwasher all weekend, and walking three miles to and from classes on the UCCS campus. My legs are friggin tired, dudes. All I want to do is watch Stranger Things and eat candy in my kickin’ Halloween costume.
So, that said, there is no bias on this side. I am slowly progressing into the Boring-Adults Who-Don’t-Want-To-Go-To-The-Door-With-Their-Siblings-On-Halloween stage of my life; yes, I know, how dreadfully tragic.
Personally, though, from the standpoint of someone who has experienced the thrill of the hunt, I do not think there should be any age limits on trick or treaters, elder or toddler.
We only have one life on this world, so why not spend it doing what you love?
Get out there and break a leg–for some of you older individuals, be careful; I don’t know, dress up as Robo-Cop, or something, get some bionic knees–and remember, it’s all in the journey…
…Unless your journey is comprised of four and a half miles of gravel road.
Then you can say screw it and join me on the couch.
I’ll even save you a bowl of candy.
P.S: Probably gonna drop to one post a week, due to the stress of college and work and my third novel, so…yeah. Peace out.
As of late, I have been stressed.
This is all thanks to college and work and my third novel–not to mention, the amount of people telling me I need to be social, and the tumultuous roller coaster ride of becoming an effective adult.
Hang on…let me take a breath…
I admit that I’m not as good at managing it sometimes, but I suppose everyone can have their imperfections…at least I hope so. If not, then I’ve been a friggin’ android all my life; yeah, get to referencing some Blade Runner, a movie I haven’t seen yet…
What’s made it easier? Well, butterflies, of course–the Cinderella of the Ugly Step Moths.
Now you’re thinking:
Butterflies. Duh! Who would not have thought of them?
Answer: Normal People, otherwise known as, Not The Weirdo Talking About Blade Runner and Butterflies.
Other-Otherwise, not you guys, ’cause if you were normal, you would have switched off your computer or tablet or phone the minute this post popped up in your feed.
Other–Other-Otherwise, we’re all weirdos.
Right, butterflies. They’ve appeared in swarms recently. Dunno whether it’s the cold weather, or that the Moths have finally struck down Butterfly City in a great and terrible flap of their mildewed wings.
I don’t mind the swarms; in fact, I rather love how the butterflies seem to swarm me in my “downer” moments, brightening me instantaneously!
On the college campus, during the mile and a quarter walk from class to my car, these butterflies float from flower to flower, springing to the air as I pass beside them. They flutter up to my face, say hello–maybe prepare to take a little butterfly poopsie on my glasses–and are gone before I can blink three times…or is it four?
When I run through the fields behind our neighborhood, it’s as if the butterflies are practicing a chorus line. A voice races to mind, “Presenting, for one night only, The Winged Rockettes–ah, damn, they already copyrighted that.”
I almost apologize for screwing with their routines, but then I remember the butterflies are the ones screwing with my routine. But is it purposeful? Or are the butterflies drunk out of their minds on sweet, sweet nectar?
Right now, I’m imagining Dennis the Menace as a moth, and the Cranky Old Man as a walking butterfly. Gee, the things your mind’ll create, am I right, guys? What? No, I’m far from drunk, just buzzed is all…
To the point of this wayward post: amid their flighty antics, the butterflies are inadvertently bringing relief to this ofttimes treadmill of a life. Not to sound weird, but their swarms seem to suck out all the negativity and stress from my mind, and kick their dark asses to the curb.
Maybe the butterflies will enroll in WWE after Broadway?
I woke up late today. Had gotten in at 11:00 the night before, exhausted from work; and so I slept until about 9:00.
When I woke up, the first thing I did was reach for my phone, which was lying beside my bed, and I looked at the screen to see a News update. The tagline that caught my attention was–Worst Mass Shooting in U.S History.
I studied it. Las Vegas? Monterey Bay? Why would someone want attack Las Vegas?
So, confused, I went upstairs and switched on the news; of course, the events were breaking on every local and national news channel. The information piled up, and the overall feeling I received was grim.
50 or more people killed, and at least 500 more injured. One shooter, aiming from a window on the 32nd floor.
A thought came to me: University of Texas.
That tragedy happened before I was born, but I knew enough about it to draw eerie parallels between both of these incidents.
I thought, “What if this guy’s like Charles Whitman? What if his life just went to complete shit, and all he could think to do was take out his frustrations on these hundreds of innocent lives?”
For close to thirty minutes, I watched the live coverage, listening to the reports of the concert goers, most of them barely able to talk; and when they were, it was through tears.
A report that hit me was from a woman who claimed she had had a feeling that something was going to happen at the concert.
How dark must our society have become that when we attend these large public events, one of our primary fears is, “What if there’s a shooter?” or “What if I, or someone I know, dies here tonight?”
Fear is now unfortunately an integral aspect of living life.
I mean, hell, I go to some concerts, even circuses, and I just get this ominous feeling.
However, just because we’re afraid doesn’t mean we have to let the fear win.
I think, as humans, we can overcome anything. We’ve survived God knows how many horrors this world has thrown our way–and yet…we always find a way to come out on top and persevere.
We are Americans, after all. That’s gotta count for something.
The best remedy to any tragedy, I think, is to let it out–let your emotions, your griefs, be heard, because as long as that sadness–that total obliteration of knowing what’s going to happen next–is pent up inside you, then it will never stop haunting you.
To those affected by the events in Las Vegas, the previous night might not ever stop being as real as it is to you right now, and that’s okay–so long as you yourself are okay, and are persevering amid darkness.
Stay strong, America.
What’s up, my people?
Sorry, was that too out-of-the-gate?
Here, tell you what, I’ll call you folks from now on. Just folks. I promise.
All right, so, guys, I gotta tell you about this sweet class I got going at college. Yes, as you might have been able to divulge from the title, it does involve middle schoolers and stories. Good to practice those reading skills whenever you can.
I am scheduled to teach a single sixth grade class, with a partner, for a whole hour. We’re required to construct a lesson plan, and, you know, all the other blah-de-bloo. It is to be presented on November 1st, the day after Halloween.
Kids, hey, we need you to pay attention! Oh my God, I think–
They’re psyched out on crap loads of candy! Run for cover!
Well, barring any unforeseen candy psychoses, I think we’ll be all right…for a little while.
Anyways, back to the point of the post, which is sixth graders writing stories.
Personally, I’m in love with the concept, but maybe that’s just ’cause I’m a writer. I dunno.
Some of the more memorable bits of these students’ writings were:
That is just the beginning–kidding, that’s actually the end.
Those four things are the only events that took place in the hour and a half I spent at this middle school. Other than that, I sat on the ground and stared at a wall and talked to myself about how Kraft Mac and Cheese is a disgusting choice of food.
Wait, you guys aren’t actually that gullible, right?
‘Cause I was totally lying about the Kraft Mac and Cheese.