Why not?

For the first time in as long as he can remember, running is invigorating. Nothing has spurred Calvin in the past few months. A rough break up with his girlfriend gave him too much to think about. “Andrea, that bitch could never understand” he would murmur to himself, time in and time out, just for a sense of security. Ever since she had finally admitted to a solid reasoning behind her awkwardness, Calvin’s thoughts had not left the enticing girl. “What’s so special about Andrea?” “Nothing, perhaps an amusing view on life, but that has been long gone.” Calvin’s conscience fights amongst itself. While understanding the world has already limited him none the less in terms of being worried, how could he handle such a crisis at such a young age? Yes, the age of twenty one does suggest a mild understanding of adulthood, but only by society’s norms. “If I must live, and I must” Calvin thought, there is no way it shall be with an understanding that the world must withhold a beast capable of such atrocities.

As his body begins to respond to whatever hormones were producing such stress, Calvin was forced to sit. The only reassurance of life Calvin could see beyond himself was the soft steam given off by a nearby vent of a sewage underpass. “Just another aspect of humanity to look forward to waking up to” Calvin thought to himself. “If everything in this world except for nature and human interaction is materialistic, then what else is there to live for?” Calvin contemplated over philosophies for as long as he could. Soon, a familiar face from work passed by during the late hours, quite an iron encounter it was. The man’s name was Erick, a newbie at the restaurant at which Calvin had been working for the past six months. Calvin had known from every interaction with Erick that he’d had that Erick was depressed. “Fuck; I wish I could care” Calvin would think to himself after a long day’s work with the kid. Nothing ever motivated him to care, although, the smile Erick dealt on that cold night gave Calvin a nearly undesired sense of security.

“Not even happiness can save me now Mother Fucker!” Calvin shouted once Erick had gotten a good five hundred yards past. That second he jumped out onto the road, landing on his back, and looked up at the moon as headlights perceived to enclose upon his head. With one final look at his losses, Calvin slit his throat before the upcoming bus could roll over him. Erick saw from a distance, and shouted “Yo! Cal!” Unfortunately, it was too late. Perhaps if it was only the severed railroad tracks that released Calvin’s blood, he would have been alright. Erick was invited to the memorial after the family heard he was of few who had any concern. The casket had to remain closed though, because those who did understand knew that there weren’t many who wanted to see such a fate.

Besties

There aren’t too many young men who get endowed in with the bonds of marriage while still receiving an education. To a slightly obese and excessively paranoid Marshall, the paranormal concept of love was irreplaceable, its presence always accepted. His walks to class were comforted by the anticipation of Allison Nexus’s generous kisses. No longer could any professor withhold Marshall’s attention from straying to his soon to be wife. Projected notes were clouded in his mind by Ally’s short, curly dark hair, and the image of her walking away, back to their apartment. Lecture halls buzzed with chatter throughout the day regardless of size, spring break had almost fully begun.

Marshall shared his last class with his right hand man, Kyle; a companion he found shortly after his first year of high school. Despite being slightly older, it was clear that Kyle was innately struck with misfortune. Diagnosed with autism, Kyle still had the will of any other man, attending college enough evidence in itself. Enthusiastic and caring, Kyle had always been the perfect vice for Marsh, and Marsh an unrelenting guide for Kyle. Reminiscing about recent teenage years quickly became a daily routine, and slowly a task.

As he sat down towards the back of the room, Marsh was greeted with familiar excitement. Kyle had recently been upset by the idea of Marsh being married, but the upcoming weekend must have boosted his moral. The fact that Marsh’s birthday was in less than twenty-four hours also could have been a factor. Again Marshall sat through an entire class inadvertently staring out the window, his ear being chewed off by an overly confident best man.

So far, there had been no regrets. Ally even hinted that Kyle was trying to conjure some sort of birthday surprise for me, making sure I had no plans for Saturday. The forecast for Marshall’s birthday was grim, but sunny morning skies gave way to Kyle’s foreseen hiking trip. Marsh was stunned that Kyle had prepared such an event, and remembered how often the two had used the woods as a pastime. Although, the trip was not much of a surprise, as Ally picked him up an hour before hand to go out in preparation.

After receiving Kyle’s foreseen call in which he claimed something to be wrong, Marshall soon pulled into the gravel parking lot at the base of Penn Ridge trails. He immediately noticed a sign marked with his name, hanging off of a large tree, and laughed satirically as he walked passed Alley’s car. After about ten minutes of an upbeat jog, Marsh could see Kyle standing in the middle of his trail. Khaki shorts that hung too low below Kyle’s waist always marked his person. Marsh opened his arms to cast an appreciative hug that Kyle graciously accepted. Sitting down to rest next to a full sheet cake seen earlier his freezer, Marshall unlaced the tops of his boots.

Finally cooling off a bit Marsh’s stomach grumbled awkwardly; thinking of food, he asked Kyle where Allison was. Only when Marshall heard that Ally was off getting candles did he notice her shoes, unorganized upon autumn’s red floor. Slowly reading Marshall’s confused face Kyle stammered: “We we-were meant to be together ma-Marsh!” Marshall winced as he caught a bright reflection atop some nearby brush - a diamond ring. The sun cast solely on Kyle, revealing several locks of Dark and curly hair contrasted upon his yellow T-shirt.

I don't wanna give my subject away

Casher Belinda

D. Grollmus

English 50

March 15, 2012

Sand arises in the powerful ocean winds, as a sudden calamity has been interrupted.

“HA!” I laugh giddily next to my friends, and we run, full with adrenaline, down the coast.

A shoreline horizon once more blends with two fires as we bask in summer’s strong heat,

and the day’s horizon fall’s twice with an aura consisting of every shade of orange.

Finally spent on a day full merging through cool sea waters, I roll over

in a musty bead of hot sand, and fall asleep.

Never have I been so sweetly lulled

by a creeping tide and a light,

mellow rain.

Few turtles and many crabs

try and escape up the nearby bank.

The awkwardly cool water smells

of such a refreshing salt, never found

on restaurant tables. The current

carries a foaming sea so close

to my mouth!

The crushing pressure

of the waves creates

so unique a sound, none

can ever interpret.

All light, even the stars

seem to be clouded.

While many have

had similar bed-time

bragging stories

in the past,

Never have they

Included such

Comfortable

Sleeping

Arrangements.

(I know we were supposed to just write observations, but I got kind of carried away and turned my observations into a poem. I thought it would be fun to write about a nuclear explosion experienced in paradise, so to speak. I tried to use as much concrete language as possible, but strayed into using free form and writing a poem in the shape of a mushroom cloud. I think there are at least ten observations though, sorry if it this is not sufficient for the assignment.)

Life Without

Casher Belinda

Ms. Grollmus

English 50

March 1, 2012

Life Without

Irradiating everywhere more visible than not,

She yearns to find her place in all;

Miss, if only your majestic ways could be taught,

Bring me thy unrelenting ecstasy, or I shall fall.

I have been told you are innate,

But I rest assured that is not solely true;

I have been told that I decide your fate,

Only some can contain her as she passes through.

Humanity shall always fiend your essence,

Her appearance all that life is worth;

Gift us with your presence,

Overtake thy entire earth.

Where you hide I’ll never understand,

I just hope that when I go we are hand in hand.

I started this entry knowing that I wanted to write a sonnet, but with a sort of ironic theme. I usually right in free verse but I figured happiness was a topic ironic enough to write formally about. I wanted to portray happiness as real and serious as I could, but also use a consistent rhyme scheme. I did not have the same number of syllables in each line, but the format otherwise is Shakespearian (I think). Punctuation was something I also tried to keep consistent throughout. I tried to use the concept of formal language give three different perspectives of happiness in the first three stanzas, while making sure to end with a separate two line stanza with its own rhyme scheme. Regardless of syllables the poem seemed fluent when I read it to myself, and the changing rhyme schemes really brought about the image of happiness and its importance to life in general. Although it does sound kind of dark, the glimpse into being without it gives a sense of thankfulness to the reader (I hope).

“I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud”

“I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud”

(Last verse)

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth

(1770–1850.)

London: Macmillan and Co., 1888.

Why hath time left us such constraints?

Too many beauties entice such endless fields,

Yet adjacent to what we call sky we are awaited by saints,

My mistress generous in the seed which she yields;

Another breed whose smell is bound to lessen my our unfair taint,

The most lucid journey remains ever so faint.

An Enlightened End

Casher Belinda

Ms. Grollmus

English 50

February 21, 2012

An Enlightened End

All disperse

Souls enriched beyond what is knowledge and wisdom

Ineffability clouds human perception

A foreseen gift blessed upon all existence

The mind is no longer our foundation

Rarely paralleled thoughts soon connect through new reality

A hinted essence achieved

Transparent awakening is inevitable

Senseless comprehension

Cycles cannot predict relentless infinities

Grayscale the plague upon humanity

The colors yet to be detected

Trust us our meditations?

Hath every moment been and continue to be an ill interpreted indication?

Beginning transpires to no end

Exhausted rebirth encompasses our dispersion

Life, is no longer a defined.a

Edit of the beginning

Running from the Elephants

The noiseless motion of my current therapist’s thumb and forefinger stun me as I watch in silence. “What, in the hell, is this guy doing?” I thought to myself as we sat, speechlessly watching his fingers slide across one another. “Do you know what this is Cash?” Dr. Lytle, questioned me in a calm voice. His blank stare made answering the rhetorical question more irritating than the odd angle at which my long-board rested against the far wall; “No.”

After a few more seconds of finger rubbing he looked me in the eyes and said, “this, this is the sound that keeps the elephants away.” I immediately re-situated myself, and once again attained the good posture I displayed at the beginning of our meeting. I was intrigued by his bizarre statement. The lack of security constantly strained upon my thoughts ceased to control my mind, and I looked up from the window blinds that blocked the last bit of sun from shining through the glass that opposed me. ‘What elephants?’ I asked, giving the doctor the implied response he desired. “The elephants that one man believes will massacre all of humanity.”

The questions about to spill out of my mouth were suddenly stopped as I realized they were being asked of me: “what happens when this troubled man, for whatever reason, cannot make the only noise that gives him some sense of safety?”

----------

Initiation of my self-claimed disorder was in no way obvious. Getting the perfect feel from everything is not only something I deemed relaxing, but was also required to avoid extreme amounts of stress. The intense motivation to act against my will provided nearly just as much anxiety. Throughout childhood my jeans were always cut at the end so they did not scrunch up. Every time I so much as rubbed up against someone I would have to count profusely in an order that separates what I consider to be good and evil. Attributes such as appearance, aura, and personality bombard my brain, compel me to make generalizations about everyone and everything I see or interact with. Someone observing would never have noticed how I would avoided certain swings at recess because of how the swing was twisted, or where it lay in the sunlight. No one thought it out of the ordinary that I only journeyed to certain parts of the playground, but then again I never gave them any insight to my reasoning.

“Is something wrong, Casher?” My elementary teachers would ask every so often when they caught a glimpse of me tensing up with extreme discomfort during read aloud. I would quickly lose breath once realized that I was the center of attention.

“I can't breath very well; I think I need to go to the nurse.”

“Are you sure?” Was always the expected response. Although my teachers never seemed to understand why I would randomly appear to be drowning in a pool of fear, they all managed come to one conclusion: the asthma inhaler that awaited me in the nurses office simply did not help my condition at all. Then again, how are synthetic steroids for my lungs supposed to help sooth my mind in the first place?

Night after night I sleep on whichever side of my body feels like it has less potential to negatively shape my future. When I sleep on my left I believe something will happen the next day involving my social and emotional life. Sleeping on my right means something will take effect on my physical life. Waking up only means entering a routine revolution of counting and acting against deceiving impulses. What satisfaction can lie in life when one has no control over their mind and the desires it provides them with? And who else could possibly understand the underlying values hidden within every notion and particle that fight hard to trap me in a world of fear, skepticism, and false belief?

older:

Running from the Elephants

The noiseless motion of my current therapist’s thumb and forefinger stun me as I watch in silence. “What, in the hell, is this guy doing?” I thought to myself, as we both sat speechless watching his fingers slide across one another. ‘Do you know what this is Cash?’ Dr. Lytle, a calm, but resilient man questioned me. With blank stare tearing right through his eyes I answered the rhetorical question; ‘No.’ After a few more seconds of finger rubbing he looked me in the eyes and said, ‘this, this is the sound that keeps the elephants away. Re-situating myself in Dr. Lytle’s stunningly comforting arm chair, I once again attained the good posture I displayed at the beginning of our meeting, as I was intrigued by his bizarre statement. The lack of security constantly strained upon thoughts fell out of my conscience, and my mind opened in hope of an explanation that could solve my endless anxiety. ‘What elephants?’ I asked, giving the doctor the implied response he desired. ‘The elephants, that one man believes, will massacre all of humanity.’ Dr. Lytle quickly replied. As if the inquiries I was about to pester the therapist with were typical, my first question was interrupted as it was asked of myself: “what happens when this troubled man, for whatever reason, cannot make the only so called noise that gives him some sense of safety?”

Friday morning, on the day after my somewhat consistent weekly meeting with my therapist, the same simultaneous thoughts run through my mind as I obsess over the thought of my purpose. Is that what casts so much fear over my daily life? The hypothetical situation in which each and every human is here solely to experience life, and that the soul each individual is bound to can only be thoroughly understood and interacted with once we don’t exist in our physically able form. The rare sight of a breathe taking butterfly fluttering in spontaneous movement always manages to remind me that, every action and thought that consumes what we consider time has some effect, as miniscule as it may be, on everything in existence. An entire life of “what if’s” has led me to natural and artificial vices that I view as imperative to finding happiness within myself. My skewed perception of what it means to live nearly requires me to judge and analyze everything in my sight through unfocused eyes that make connections that are void of any normality.

Night after night I sleep on the whichever side of my body feels like it will not create a negative turn of events in my future experiences while reoccurring phobias and unanswered questions circle my though pool. Waking up only means entering a routine revolution of counting and acting against deceiving impulses. What satisfaction can lie in life when one has no control over their mind and the desires it provides them with? And who else could possibly understand the underlying values hidden within every notion and particle that fight hard to trap me in a world of fear, skepticism, and false belief.

Of life through love

Fatal desire contracts us from environment, but only upon vivid, spontaneous imagination, remembrance, or sensation. The essence of life, often judged through time, suddenly has the ability to be felt as ineffable emotions cloud the mind and soul. Consumed by common existence, most beautiful within those that share a deeper genuine stare. Rarely can be seen two of envious perfection dwelling in innate destiny. A combination releasing countless ecstasies and vices that could never be exchanged. Much beyond purpose is gifted via mutual lust, and a private world drowned in euphorias previously forbidden. Rebirth in essence. Ability to live through combined feeling without the tenuous restraints of time. False parameters disappear.

Warning is necessary for those overwhelmed by a particular ora, as that which can give us so much meaning through existence, can also bewilder and retard one until happiness is realistically out of sight. The strings that once tied such enviable interaction, sometimes deceived, or warn, or suddenly stressed, are quick to snap and constrict us with relentless will. Time is again the worst enemy, and night unfolds only to leave a undesired conscience. "When?" finally becomes the most intimate question that is always on our minds as we must again wait while physically existing seconds walk us by and force us to repeat that which we can bare the least.

Mistrust in another immediately leads to mistrust in many, if not all. Skepticism again flocks around us despite any embrace. Self and similar blood are again recognized as the foundation for worth, and a gained knowledge lingers, grinning as it observes life rebuild itself within us, a new and better understood essence about. One step closer, regardless of anything that may be missing, to understanding what it is to be. Destiny is once again in the moment, as the truth rests unanswered in a burst of fluttering confusion. The path once so elaborately paved no longer exists, security and sense of direction weary, the choice is once again presented informally by what remains unsolved. The first enactment in a different degree, as discerning as it may be, has the chance of being more than a blessing, provided false ideals are not given the opportunity to fog intuition.

Tayari Jones, just another author?

Tayari Jones may have had some interesting points on writing style, revision, and writers block, her stories, when read silently to one's self, or at least to myself, are lack luster and drawn out. To be able to even slightly enjoy Ms. Jone's work, I had to hear it spilling emotionally off her tongue as I sat in a well lit, comfortable auditorium. I almost felt as if Ms. Jones was a better reader than she was a writer, but none the less, she has her given talents in both categories. Perhaps my thoughts are biassed because I did not enjoy her genre or style of writing, but I really did not find it that breathe taking. Her works included good vocabulary and portrayed solid thought and connection between characters and events, but the stories she was reading seemed pointless as a whole. There was nothing greater to be perceived from her writing than was blatantly obvious, or worth noting.

Despite the missing punch in Jones' content, she has made it clear that she has the ability to entice a broad and vast audience as a professional writer, and for that I can most definitely conjure some respect. Also, the way she said that she was able to just keep writing in an ongoing manner, only to go back through her work and fearlessly remove anything that kept her from feeling content, gives her good reason to be humble. Taking away something you have put effort into, and realizing that you have wasted time and purpose, is often quite aggravating, and separating what is quality content from what is not is generally a harder task. Overall, I think that Tayari Jones is a somewhat dull, but respectable writer.

Obsessed

My fingers slide off of the door knob and I tap it once again before I exit my extensively organized dorm. Taking the right number of breaths, and counting everything as I walk, my day begins. Compulsions result from the obsessions that I consistently ponder over. My mind is flooded with "what if's" as I try and retain a better understanding and purpose for everything I do, and see. My clothes must feel and appear in a manner that I deem acceptable, which to most others might be viewed as perfectionism. Everything I partake in, whether it eating, writing, walking, talking, or whatever else I may do on a daily basis, fully exposes my extreme obsessions and tics. While sometimes obsessing may be considered helpful, in that it keeps me organized and on my toes, the anxiety caused by the severe constraints provided by my many compulsions and thoughts makes obsessing far beyond being worth it; although it is not usually a choice for me. When people have as many tics as I do, it is generally considered a disorder, and control over one’s thoughts, at this point, is a very limited capability.

To list everything I need to perform, think about, and how I think about either what I am doing or thinking of, would be nearly impossible. Even before I knew I had obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD), it was clear to me that my thought process differed immensely from anyone else I had met. While the traits of my OCD do not define me, they have truly made me a completely different person. Worries constantly overwhelm my mind, and thoughts circle in my head, almost endlessly, as I think about the most random things that could happen and how they are all tied together. My biggest fear, yet at the same time fascination, lies within how my thoughts seem to follow the theory of the butterfly effect. Everything that happens, regardless of how minutiae it may be, is connected to, and alters, upon change, everything in existence.

A bloody night in Happy Valley

http://www.centredaily.com/2012/01/18/3056541/police-say-marijuana-theft-led.html

A cold, dry winter parking lot, commonly hosting some of State College deviants, could only belong to the South Gate residence. Despite its somewhat luxurious title, South Gate is merely a miniature slum within State College, not often busy or exciting despite the consistent and extremely blatant minor drug deals that go on around the apartments. Unfortunately, for two young, arrogant, and ignorant young men, a bitter Monday night starting on South Gate Drive lead to a much more revolting conclusion than a simple pot sale. There is a fine line between drug dealers and fiends, and a scraggily, ill kept Tyler Marlatt fell far beyond its border in an attempt to retrieve what dirty money was schemed from his equally skeptical girlfriend.

‘Are they coming for that G?’ Marlatt’s girlfriend, Fatima shouts to him from the neighboring room in their drug infested apartment. Although not all drug users are unstable and criminally bound, addiction, poverty, and greed can consume nearly anyone fixing for either substance, or cash. ‘So are they coming?’ Fatima inquired again. ‘Jesus I said yes!’ Marlatt shouted back through the wall. Soon enough the faint sound of an engine rattled through the window of the dealers’ bedroom, and a quick peak through the blinds led to the ever so high Marlatt to call out to his lady: ‘They’re here!’ After a slow, somewhat euphoric walk down the steps, Fatima slides out the front door of the Southgate residence and walks in a nonchalant manner to the idling, beat down sports car.

Bursting back into the apartment, Marlatt’s girlfriend frantically begins voicing his name, as she limps to the few doors he could possibly be behind, smoking with a few of his typical self-centered friends. ‘They took our weed babe! They didn’t pay me shit, and when I tried to take it back they just took off while I was still holding on! Ah, and my leg hurts pretty damn bad; I dunno what the fuck just happened!’ After a split second of zoned-out hesitation, Marlatt replied in furry, ‘Wait who did what? You mean Struble?’ Catching her breath Fatima replied ‘Yeah. His stuck up bitch Melinda, or whatever her name is was there too.’ After another few seconds of what seemed to be an out of body moment for Marlatt, he stood up, walked to the door leading to the hallway, turned to the rotted coffee table to his left, pocketed the hunting knife laying atop, and demanded his friends grab his wooden bat from his bed room corner. As the three young, absent minded men and Fatima headed to their ride, Marlatt coldly remarked: ‘Either we’re leaving with our money, or somebody is getting hurt.’

Soon arriving at Struble’s house on a nearly vacant Henszey Street, the aggravated conflict for twenty dollars began to unfold, as did Marlatt’s six inch steel hunting blade.

Soul Shoes

Out all of the clothing articles people engulf themselves in every day, there is nothing one can wear that out-serves their shoes. The most memories I can recall, in terms of clothing, all retreat back to a pair of white, slip-on, Van's look-a-like shoes I bought at Walmart. While inexpensive and poorly designed, the blank canvas of the shoes inspired me to be creative. Before I left Walmart on the day I purchased the shoes, I also grabbed an entire kit of sharpies, and let my imagination go to work. Within a few hours of concentrated drawing at home, I had constructed a true representation of myself that I could slide onto my feet. Unfortunately, the shoes were demolished within a week; due to riding a bike without brakes, and longboarding on the roasting asphalt roads in the summer. Although the shoes had a quick demise, I had more fun riding around in them than anything else, and came out with a new hobby. Soon I was going through countless amounts of sharpies and making one pair of shoes after another. I would give them away as gifts to friends and family, and even managed to sell a few pairs in high school.

Drawing on shoes is definitely a time consuming activity, but every time I either made a pair for myself or someone else, I got more in return in reference to respect and good memories. My sister, who is much more talented artistically than I am, also took up the hobby, giving us the opportunity to exchange them between one another. In almost no time at all we had what seemed to be a small non-profit business running, where we simply bought shoes and drew on them for basically anybody who wanted them. While neither of us made much of a profit from our new found hobby, I can speak for us both when I say the process itself rewarding enough regardless. Finding a way to express my creativity in a way that I feel serves a purpose is, in my mind, worth the cost of a pack of markers, and a pair of ten dollar shoes. Even though college does not leave me with enough time or money to enjoyably do so anymore, I still have intact creations that I wear around, and I know, being a local, that there are others on campus that do as well. The remaining pairs lying in my home, in my dorm, in people’s closets, and in the trash, despite how torn, will carry my memories, and perhaps the memories of several others.