Chapter 3: clackclackclackclackclack!

**IF YOU ARE A NEW READER, PLEASE CLICK ON THIS LINK TO GET A SENSE OF WHAT IS ASKED, AND WHAT YOU CAN DO TO START FROM THE BEGINNING :)http://happilyunpopular.blogspot.com/2010/07/finallly.html**


*To find the previous chapters, click the tab labelled "The Project" at the end of this post! A list of All the previous posts should appear!**

Lucas’s eyes opened slowly in the morning sunlight. The tracks beneath him tapping a muffled metronomic beat that rose from the wheels to the axle, through the various mechanisms to the carpeting and up his legs, gently touching his spinal chord. Lucas didn’t raise his head, his eyes instead half-heartedly scanning the carriage in which the attendant had placed him. He was alone, the air his to take as he chose. Lucas felt a slight disappointment, a large part of him wishing that the attendant would’ve brought someone to keep him company.

Lucas rose like a breath, his consciousness not the slightest bit tired, and yet, for his mind, there had been no rest. He had merely transferred from unconsciousness into consciousness, his body disregarded by the mind. As he moved, unfurled from the corner of the carriage, he could feel the creaking in his bones. He stretched out his left arm and gave his wrist a half turn. Grrrck! He pointed with his index finger, then furled it. Snap!

Lucas half-stared at his wrist. His body felt old, deteriorating. He did not try to stretch further, leaving his slouching shoulders to oppress the rest of his torso. His spine creaked. Age, he had thought to himself. His body seemed well beyond its years. With wandering eyes, his gaze shifted to the large pane he had awoken beside. Slowly, his feet shuffled, turning his hunched figure towards the translucent mirror. His achy neck strained as it held up the seemingly too heavy of a cranium, and that, after the years it had attended to it’s task, it was on the verge of collapsing. He stared at his reflection gravely.

Staring back at him was a young man of eighteen, fresh out of the best high school in his district. His body was willowy, to a point when it was nearly morose. His skin was taut and tanned by the sun, with hardly but a few blemishes that broke the infinitely stitched knitting of his soft hide. His blonde hair was styled back in a fashion reminiscent of the days of the Ivy League generation, leaving his eyes and forehead free from their intrusion. He watched the buildings pass by like cars headed in the opposite direction, and he found himself realizing, as if for the first time, the gravity of what he had done in boarding this train. It was not that he had never boarded a train before on his own, but rather, in his boarding of the train, he had taken a step in a new and terrible direction that, in all of the years of his life, he had thought himself to be above. Lucas had made a choice, one that he previously thought himself resolute against, at the hands of an anonymous force, one that had been ever-present for what seemed his entire existence.

Lucas sighed, his eyes bearing the regret of which it had seemed he had bore too long, suddenly creaking under the weight of yet another transgression. They brimmed with the similar hopeless frustration, and he turned away from the slightly transparent monument to all of his sins. He wanted to forget this life. He wanted to forget his mistakes, to bear those apparently unbearable sins no more. His chest shuddered mournfully.

His mind revisited a moment from his past. He was years younger, his mind a thousand times more innocent. He thought of the sun, and how it shone brilliantly, gently, in his mind. He sculpted the slight transparencies of the green leaves overhead, and the silhouette of the face obscured by the sun. He tried to make out the face, to see what his mind had instilled in his thoughts…

Suddenly, an idea came to his head. He turned to where he sat, his eye falling on the black messenger bag, its flap lying open in disarray. Reaching into the front pocket, he pulled out his cell phone, sliding it to reveal the small keyboard-style pad, and started typing the letters to the his contact.

Before he hit the send button, he froze. Doubt held his finger back, like a puppeteer tugging the string attached to his thumb. What would he say once thy answered the phone? What if the voice on the other end made him tell him where he was? He stared at the name, anxiety rising like a boiling water in the chimney of a geyser. Should I call him? What should I do? The thoughts ran through his as swiftly as the train that had carried him. He thought of how the people on the other end would respond. Would they even answer?

He pressed the green button after his contact information had been brought up, bringing the phone up to his ear. A second went by. Two. Three. He heard the ringing in the ear piece. He paced the carriage, shrugging and stretching his shoulders, a lightness easing into his movements. A youthfulness accompanying the nervousness and anxiety beforehand. Would they pick up? Give it a second, Lucas said to himself. He’s probably far away from the phone.

Four. Five. Six. Still no answer. The carriage darkened as the train bulleted into a tunnel. Lucas began to wonder if he was ever going to pick up that phone. He had no idea what he was going to say, or how to explain why he was on a train headed to some unknown destination. He just knew that the one thing he wanted to do, but didn’t get the chance to, was say goodbye.

“You’ve reached the Spelling’s residence. Please leave a message with your name and number, and we will get back to you as soon as possible.”

Lucas froze. Then, he slowly brought the cell phone down from his ear. He pressed the end button, rubbing his forehead as he placed the cell phone into his pocket. He couldn’t leave a message, he decided. It wouldn’t be right. He didn‘t want to talk to him anymore. He didn’t want to think about him anymore. It’s not like he wouldn’t have anything to say to me, anyway.

Lucas found himself sitting down in the same seat he had awoken in. Contempt, stale and decrepit with age, set into him once more. Once more, his mind wandered, his eyes closing as he thought of the nap he had just woken up from. He remembered dancing beneath the stars, the elegance he felt throughout his body, the comfortableness in his mind, and in his heart. He thought of the music that rang through the night, the glittering stars, the spins with his partner--.

His eyes popped open once more. Absentmindedly, he paid notice as he turned to the rushing darkness, turning to the only thing he knew; the slightly less transparent glass monument to all of his sins.

Rejection Letters and Wedding Vows

Well... I should inform you that the confirmation of my rejection was emailed to me this morning. I'm no longer a student at the university.

I have to say that, as difficult as this is, I am not loosening my grip on God yet. This morning, I read John 14, and it talked about how he was not yet finished in his work with the disciples, but when he was, they would do great things for him. After I received the notice, I went to make good on a promise with my little brother to take him to see inception, and when I turned on the car, I heard a segment on Air1 talk about the same passage, and relay the same message to me, though it was not originally what i had gathered from the verses at the time.

Thinking about what I can learn about this... I've come with three lessons as a child of God: humility, patience, and faithfulness.

Humility-- I was very prideful when it came to my schooling. I wanted to take the hardest classes, and prove that I was leagues ahead of those who had better grades than I did. When upperclassmen told me they were going to a state college or a community college, I always looked down on them. Once, a series of alum who had finished their fall term came to visit a teacher, and I had asked them why they weren't studying or whether or not they had any assignments to complete. They told me they had no assignments to complete, and that they were no longer worried abotu classes now that finals were over.

I snickered, "That's while public universities are never as good as privates."

Yeah, I wasn't even subtle about it. In my mind, they seemed lesser than myself. When it came time for me to apply, and I had gotten into only two colleges, one public and one private, i almost immediately signed up for the private.

However, when it came time for financial aid, the public one gave me a MUCH better deal. I thought it meant that they were the one that wanted me more...

And then came the final transcript... My first semester, I took nine classes, and received six A's. One B, One C, and One F. Spanish. My second semester, I took Seven classes, and received four A's. One B, One C, and One F. Spanish. You've seen for yourself the letter I wrote as to why they had happened, and still, I wasn't good enough.

Now i'm stuck with the rest of the student body, dispersed amongst schools in the local area, with the people who didn't try in high school. With the people who i walked by, each and every day, looking down upon because I was so sure that I would be voting to have their welfare reduced, or abolished altogether, in the next few years.

It's one of the most irritating things in the world. But, my pride has cost me dearly in many ways, this last quirk of fate was merely set in place so that I can do something about it. I must lower myself. I must rid myself of the caste system of intellect, because it not only impaired me socially, but spiritually as well. It seemed the more religious an individual I met, the more I pitied them, viewing their devotion as merely "quaint".

Quote:

---

"He must become greater. I must become Less."
-John 3:30

---

Faithfulness & Patience--I've asked God "Why did I do all that work if you were going to simply turn it to naught?"

To give you an Idea of what I did, I'll refer back to my letter. I had an average of 8 hours of sleep to divy up during the week days. I was the captain of my mock trial team, and I was the lead in my school play. I volunteered at my local hospital, 3 hours a week, and I worked in the church cafe, also 3 hours a week. I attended bible study three times a week, Tuesday through Thursday. I got nearly all of my homework done, as well as went to the local college library to work on my extended essay, the role of developmental psychology in homosexual identity... something that caused frequent headaches and bouts of depression.

I even remember the time that I had pushed myself so hard, I passed out in that college library, in the psychology section, after going 40 hours on a half-hour of sleep, and I believe the last thing that I had consumed of substance was the white-chocolate mocha with eight shots of espresso the night before...

Looking back... Sometimes I think "Why did I work so hard? Why did miss prom, and every dance, and all but ONE football game, if all it meant was that I would end up staying HERE? Was it pointless?"

But, all I have to do, is think back. I only have to think about the importance of everything I learned. I have only to think about how it finally clicked that people who were scientists and writers, musicians and politicians, philosophers and linguists, didn't become great simply because it came natural to them. They saw a great need with the world. The saw what needed to be done, and they did what it took to do it.

I remember a line from what seemed to be a poem by Walt Whitman's "Pioneers!" that was recited for a Levi's Commercial. In research, I learned that it was abridged.

Quote:

---

Pioneers, O Pioneers!
Have you your pistols? Have you your pick-axes?
You, whom all the rest of the world depends?
Pioneers, O Pioneers?

---

I'm not sorry I did it. I'm not sorry it happened. I learned so much. About myself, about my capacity to do what is difficult, about my ability to maintain. I began to learn what school was all about, and I began to understand what a true student cared about.

I can only assume that this time will only show me more about Life, and why I am here. I cannot falter. I cannot miss a step. I cannot quit. I cannot give up.

This is the time I must use to further my talents. My mom and I have decided that, while I'm attending school, I'll be working on my book. My goal, is to complete it in a Year. I know the demand, but now, I know that IB was merely training for the big times. I will use my extra time to move closer to my goal, and I will apply once more, not to the school that revoked my admission, but to another school, hopefully, higher in rank, and I will never let that revocation haunt me. 

A Messy Room Makes for a Messy Mind.

Yes, that's a picture of my room. I've done just a tad bit of cleaning, but it's not to say that there as been a lot of progress...

Dear readers, I don't know if your rooms are pristine in comparison to mine, or if they seem to be about the same, or even if they are landfills you've stopped sleeping in, opting instead to crash on the couch for the night... or month. But how clean our room is, can be a great indicator of how our life is at that point in time. My room has seen its clean days and its horribly cluttered days. There have been days where I've worn the same shirt multiple times, and there have been days where I have been on top of my chores and maintaining a a relatively clean environment.

Looking around the clutter that I have amongst my feet and my room, I see a million things that I need to have done. That I should've done already. It's something that is all to familiar to me, yet I wake up each morning and try not to get off my bed, or look at my desk. I'm avoiding the problem. I don't want to deal with it.

The mess of my own life mirrors that situation a lot, almost to the point where it scares me. They pile up and clutter and oppress my thoughts and say "You know what needs to be done. You know what you have to do. We are just going to sit here until you acknowledge us and do something about us."

For the past few weeks, I've been driving myself like a runaway train running out of track. I've felt it more these past few days than I've felt it in a long time. I've been running, trying to avoid this presence in my life that I can't overcome, and that I can't control or deny any longer, and it was stupid to try and do so, but I do it all the time. I did it for the reasons that i avoid anything: I was afraid to change.

I had another sexual encounter. We don't talk anymore. I made sure of that. But you know what? It was fake. From the time I met up with him, per his request, I knew what would happen, and that it would be fake. And yet, I still went along with it. I know that, on quite a self-prominent level, I have a tendency to seek these things out, and I hate that. Yes, I seek random sexual encounters, and it gives the worst feeling in the world, because they are never what i want. In not a single case did I feel fulfilled, nor closer to the individual that I had encountered.

God... I think that He's been the person that I've been avoiding. He's the person that I've been fighting, and I know exactly why, because I have been angry with him for a long time. Angry at the obvious contradiction between the guidelines of my faith and my wind-like nature. But I've also been afraid. God, I've been so afraid. But I suppose that my fears are because I don't want to lose my attraction for guys. As much pain as it has caused me in the past, I suppose that I've grown so attached to it. It wasn't something that I thought would cause me despair on such a high level, but even so... I still have a lot of good memories during this constant struggle. Being gay may or not be who I am, but it's definitely made up a huge part of my existence, and I don't know if I'm ready to give it up.

So now the ball's in my court. I know I have at least one friend who has stuck by me no matter how much I've whined and complained about how much life has sucked, and I know that they will still be there. The pendulum is set in motion in the opposite direction once more, as I flee across the deserted street where the marble and bronze statues stand poised and petrified [for those of you who don't know the reference, please click this link http://happilyunpopular.blogspot.com/2010/06/response-to-millions-of-congressmen-in.html] Continuing the dance down Amnesty lane.

I wish you all a good den. Right now, i need to clean my room.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ISSFmXnHuZc

Chapter 2: Toby's eyes opened abruptly.

**IF YOU ARE A NEW READER, PLEASE CLICK ON THIS LINK TO GET A SENSE OF WHAT IS ASKED, AND WHAT YOU CAN DO TO START FROM THE BEGINNING :) http://happilyunpopular.blogspot.com/2010/07/finallly.html**


Puzzled, he eventually realized that he was no longer poised feet above a forest floor, but instead was in a plastic seat on the metro. His head had been leaning against the giant window pane, the glass revealing the rushing scenery of the neighborhoods and the freeways. Sleepily, he straightened up and began to scan his car, rubbing the crud from his eyes repeatedly. What kind of dream was that?

Toby froze at the question, the palm of his right hand still on his eye. It was a dream, to be sure, but he had never encountered anything quite like it before. His could feel where the wind coursed along his forearms. He could recall the sensation when it ran through his curls and down his scalp. He could hear the echo the crunch of the leaves beneath his feet. If it had only been a dream, it had been one of the most vivid, powerful dreams Toby had ever experienced.

Toby was still contemplating this when the attendant led a girl to the same car as him. Toby took note of the strange occurrence; weren’t attendants considered a thing of the past? He had ridden the train many times, yet had never been escorted to a seat. He usually had the freedom to sit anywhere.

The girl sat across from him, giving a polite smile as she pulled off her windbreaker. She was shorter than him, though there was little doubt in his mind of her age being at least eighteen. She wore little make up, her golden skin bare with discreet splashes of a lighter tones about her shoulder. She wore a solid color tank top and a skirt, a portion of her extended, oak-colored hair drawn back by a hairclip, the locks cascading over her shoulders. She had with her a small purse, and Toby watched as she unzipped it and pulled out a tube of lip gloss, applying it in the pane next to him.

After a moment, she stopped. “Can… I help you?” She asked behind a nervous grin. Toby, realizing how long he had been staring, simply shook his head. She continued to look at him for a while, before grinning and extending her hand. “I’m Darcy.”

“Tobias.” He took it.

Darcy nodded, then sat back. She looked out the window as the scenery passed by too quickly. Toby wanted to ask her where she was heading, as he had wondered about himself. He had only received a train ticket in the mail, and had often wondered why it only showed on destination, which was the town that he had lived in. He had chosen today, a Saturday in which he had cleared all plans with others, including his parents, to find out. He hopped on the train, and from there, and attendant [the first one he had ever seen for a metro] took him to this train.

He pulled out his train ticket. The flimsy slip read the same information it had before. METRO in bold black letters, with the date it was to be used. Toby moved to put back into his wallet--

Wait, what was that?

Toby looked back to the ticket. It looked plain enough, and after a while, he began to move it back into the wallet when he saw a flash. As he bent the ticket a certain way, the outlining of a figure reflected off of the overhead lights. Toby was once again puzzled by what was in front of him, and as he slipped the slip into his wallet, he found himself wondering what had possessed to even get on the train in the first place.

“Curiosity…” Darcy squinted. Toby turned to see her looking at his book, lying on the floor between them, its spine lying face-up. Toby must’ve dropped it when he dozed off. He bent over and picked up the book, his page disappearing in the recovery.

“Excuse me, is that seat open?”

Toby and Darcy turned to the doorway, where a man, scruffy and unkempt, leaned against the wooden apparatus of a door mantle. The comparative term “man” was used loosely, for he himself didn’t look a day over twenty. He had brick-colored, scraggly hair, and had elongated stubble, which swept about his chin, just short enough from becoming unruly. He had a vintage hat that resembled a fedora placed on the crown of his head, large rimmed sunglasses over his eyes, a gray deep v-neck tee atop his chest, slim jeans, and sandals on his feet.

Toby nodded. “Yeah.” He said.

He sat next to Toby, “Thanks.” He gave Darcy a friendly nod, who smiled politely back.

The three of them rode in silence for a long time. Darcy sat with her thighs crossed, one golden calf over the other. Both men stole small glances at her salmon colored toenails, on display from between the elaborate strapping of her sandals. Unaware, Darcy dug through her purse, pulling out her phone, in which she checked her text messages. Darcy knew it to be a nervous habit when she was alone. After her phone read “no new messages”, she leaned back into her seat, exasperated. Her vision wandered to the to the ceiling of the car, then to the hallway just outside of their carriage, and then to the boys across from her.

She uncrossed her legs and dropped the bag in front of her toes, the two boys starting with a jolt, then at her, in slight confusion, then at everything else, in avoidance and slight embarrassment in their loss of manners.

The unnamed man became pensive, and after a while, extended his hand to the recently offended lady. “My apologies, miss. I meant no disrespect.”

Darcy looked at him a moment, and extended her hand. “It s’okay” she shrugged.

The man shook it kindly, his eyes shifting to the bag at her feet. “Darcy…” He read the stitching on the lip of the tote. “That’s a nice name. I’m Hannibal.”

That’s not so nice. Darcy thought to herself. It was only a fleeting thought, one that she had quickly reprimanded herself for. Hannibal turned and shook hands with Toby, and engaged in a conversation with him. Darcy turned back to the window and continued to watch the rushing scenery, one golden calf over the other.

LINK TO SONG!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XvlfB_zP6uI&feature=PlayList&p=6A453A3131D6AEC4&index=3&shuffle=196&playnext=3

Chapter 1: Toby looked to see an Unremarkable Path in a Nameless Wood…

He had walked it once before. It was wide enough for a cart, which suggested it was once used from wherever it had been to wherever it was going for whichever purpose the sojourner had embarked. He knew none of those things. He had simply awoken along its course. No past. No goal.

The path was dressed in autumn colors. The different trees that stood in sentinel-like fashion struck him like a sight he had not been able to explain until now. They were much like knights, clad in their armor of wood and garnished with paintings from the earth in the audience chamber. The Sun was low, the star bending below the canopy to peak at the lonesome boy who wandered the ascending path of the mountain. His feet shuffled along the path, but he wasn't unsure of where he was going. Or rather, the question never arose in his mind. His legs simply moved where his feet took them. His conscious had instead been rocked gently in the notion that his body knew where it was going, that there was something he had to do.

He continued to walk along the path, taking in the crisp, cool air that sneaked kisses at his face as it passed by. He closed his eyes, his arms moving from his sides around each other, as if he was embracing himself. An inhale: the air was clean, its scent sweet, like water good for drinking. He drank a gluttonous breath, a sputtering cough or two retaliating. The air scraped against his nose and lungs if inhaled too deeply, yet he found the bigger pain to be his not having experienced these scrapes all the years that He had lived, for it seemed as if this was the only air Man was meant to breathe. His lungs took another gulp, the tinge of pain less potent this time around as the air pushed his lungs outwards, blessing the unfolding crevices he had previously ignored. His sights ascended to the canopy above. Leaves painted crunchy gold, dried red, and filtered brown shuffled like waves at the wind's passing. He felt the air meander along his neck, as a cat did around one's ankle in love, its voice seemingly whispering dotingly into his ear. Yes, I hear it…

"Hear what?" his consciousness asked. But there was no answer. His skin had fallen quiet, simply marching with its own purpose, its own consciousness. It had something to show him. There was no hurry. His conscious sat silently, observing the path ahead in slightly anxious wonderment, but it could not deny that there was indeed a purpose for this anonymity, and the fact that there was a purpose... was comforting.

Soon, his thoughts were interrupted by the faintest sound. That in itself struck him as peculiar, because up to this point, there had been none. No sparrows or jays in chirp, no squirrels in chatter, no disturbed brush. It had been completely silent, except for the wind. He stopped in puzzling question: Where did that sound come from? Was there someone there? Why is there no life here?

He asked none of these. Instead, he only asked. "Why have I heard this before?"


The thought struck him as odd, but he eventually came to recognize the sound to be a song. It was instinctively familiar, though he had been certain that, at the same time, he had never heard it before. His body leaned towards the direction of the melody: to his left, off of the path into the thick of the wood. Its opening was had been made apparent by the bending of the greenery, imitating what looked like a cave mouth. From there, the single line of notes sailed from a seemingly distant origin. It called to him. Not in the Hollywood depictions of a ghostly whisper that shouted one's name, as he have no doubt some readers had immediately considered with the previous sentence. Rather, it called to him much like open arms call an embrace, or the way the wind nudged at one's back, pushing them along like parents to children to go play with other kids. It drew him in, if nothing else, out of merest curiosity. He had sought not to spite them, but everything--every bone in his body, every wisp of air, had told him that the rules of adulthood had disappeared the second he stepped on that path.

He stepped inside, away from the gentle nudging of the Air. Away from the hollow of the winds hands...

The other side wasn't dark; there were still streams of sunlight pouring in from the canopy. But the trees were older and taller, the canopy seemingly hundreds of feet high, their trunks thick with age and experience. He wondered amongst them for a moment, in silent awe and an unspoken understanding: his body was showing him where to find his way.

The music continued to lead him. He trekked carefully along the shrub and untamed wood, the entire time, his mind seemingly hypnotized by the most delicate of songs. Soon, Toby came to a clearing, where the oldest and tallest oak tree had indubitably resided. After seeing it, he froze-- underneath it’s branches was a man, sitting quite comfortably on a gigantic root. He was old, though he did not look it: his face was youthful, and his hair, though mostly gray, had more than enough auburn color in it to suggest below middle-aged. His beard was mostly gray stubble, and he had eyes so vibrant, so brilliant, that they had been the reason He stopped. The music had come from his voice: the sound of his whisperings and thoughts were music to him. Too afraid to move closer, but still fixated on the man; Toby stared from behind a spruce. He couldn't understand everything he had said, but each word, each inflection of his voice, was like a piece of twine wrapping around him towards him, not spoken, maybe not even real, but understood.

Eventually, he looked towards him. A stab of fear stuck him, preventing him from running, held him terrified that he had spotted him. With a smile, he gestured. "Come out, my friend."

He did not know why, but Toby simply moved out of the wood. He moved, and happily too. His fear at that moment had proved as effervescent as the wind... as the man’s voice. He stood before the man on the pedestal, and, almost instinctively, he felt nothing but safety.

He didn't ask anything of him. He almost didn't say anything at all. But, Toby suddenly had questions. So many things about the past. So many fears and doubts from when he was asleep. He didn't know which one to begin with, but suddenly, he found myself unable to do anything. He looked towards him, so full of doubt. In the presence of this vision, he had lost himself.

He turned to leave, his body suddenly wretched to him. As he turned, something had stopped him. A girl, a little shorter than himself. Her hair caped alongside her cheek, its skin soft and slightly pillowy-looking. She was pale, her eyes, though dark in color, stared at him, bright and narrow. She was yards away, her hands at her side, her eyes looking at him in puzzlement. What beautiful eyes...

They are interrupted by the man on the root, for he had started signing once again. They turned, looking at him, their collective curiosity, he had realized, being the source of those words. Those words and that music...

Music?

He opened his eyes again, unaware that they had been closed. Yes, there was music. It swayed the trees and the fabric of his shirt. It ran across the quiet streams and his bald scalp. It gave him goose bumps, those of which raced up the small off his back, along his spine, and over his scalp. There was something sacred in what he sang, one that lifted the leaves off the ground, which encircled him, and lifted him off of the ground.

He did not meet this revelation with fear, but rather, he simply turned back to the singing man. He continued to sing, sing like the he was Pan himself. The music grew louder, awakening the Jays and Sparrows, drawing out the Chipmunks and the Squirrels. He looked back to the girl--she was aloft as well, her eyes widened slightly at the sight of her feet floating on air. The leaves on the floor stood lightly, propped by the wind that was the singing man's voice. Left, right, They swayed below his toes, left, right. He found myself watching their dance sordidly, the way two of them would roll about each other, and how they would join in circles of three or four or five. The way they had lifted off of the ground, swirling and spinning about his floating ankles. He felt a sort of giddiness, one birthed only from the rare unabashed love of the spontaneity of spirit back in the world of his dreams, where everyone had to follow rules.

He swayed. Stepped. One, two, three. One, two, three. The air had become his ballroom floor. He was waltzing alone, the leaves the wooden floors, the music his only partner. He opened his eyes again, looking again towards the girl only a few feet away. She had begun to twirl, her waltz beautiful and lonely, a single leaf blowing along a whispering meadow. It was then Toby had found his mouth soundlessly saying the words "Olive Juice."

The leaves were ecstatic, jumping off the branches to join them. They gathered beneath the two of them and elevated them. They spun, danced, waltz along the souls of their feet. Pushing him towards her, pulling him away. He began to understand, what this bard beneath him had brought him. He looked up from his root, now dozens of feet below them. He closed his eyes, his voice singing into his mind, into hers. Their voices singing along.


"Winter has come, and gone, you know... Winter has come, and gone, you know... But I’m way too young and free... for a Dance.... 'Round the memory tree."

Finallly!

Hello All!

I am pleased to announce the unveiling of my secret labor for the last few weeks. I'm releasing a bit of SERIALIZED fiction!

"But, Atticus... what is that?"

Oh? Well it works a lot like a saturday morning cartoon! an episode a week involving consistent character development!

Trying to figure out a name, however, is difficult... how can i hope to give a name....

I suppose I should simply post the chapters up, and then have you, the readers, throw out names you like... and please tell me what you like.. :) I WANNA KNOW!

Any feedback is nice. criticisms, praise, character discussions, plot inquiries, or just taking your one allowance of calling me a name is PERFECTLY fine...["don't be racist or rude!"--Phillip DeFranco]

No but seriously, one more bit of news about this topic: This is all an extension of the post "I Remember an Unremarkable Path in a Nameless Wood." What that means for the people who read my blog, I changed the perspective from 1st to 3rd, and gave the moment to a character named Tobias. As such, I will be reposting the short as the first chapter in the story without a name IN ADDITION to the piece i have been added.

Also, I will also bee posting my thoughts and reflections on here as well, for those who want to read them, on separate days. They will be separated into "Current Events Which I care about," and "Things going on in my life :)"

Be sure to either join my mailing list, or to follow my blog, by hitting the "follow" button with the google insignia on the right. That way, you can get all of my latest updates. :)

So without Further Ado, my first episodes of the nameless project which needs a name!

Enjoy!

The animals are beginning to head for the hills...

But that is only to prepare for the onslaught of literary digestions I have for you readers, for those of you who don't know me in real life, I haven't abandoned my blog-- far from it. I am to soon bring about a great addition to it. Be patient, my readers, i promise you'll enjoy it.

A Harrowing Nap

I am writing this because of the parallels to the events of the last few moths. I'm not going to spill too many details, but this dream has been a mental coping mechanism.

I remember having a long board. I am a good longboarder in this one. Longboards are as fast as cars, though much more dangerous at the speeds which I take them. I ride them in the left-most lane of the streets of Los Angeles. I am race at Mach 1 speeds, my lane empty. Cars move out of my way. Every intersection is between road and train track. I don’t slow down. I can’t slow down. The entire city seems to be going downhill. The gates start coming down. All in rows. In the late afternoon sun, I see the crossing gates begin to close as I approach. I zip past one just beginning to close. Lean to the side to avoid the arm of the next. Break through the arm of the third. I do not stop or even slow down. I keep going, and when I put out the effort to stop myself, I end up in the desert of Barstow, by the wind-molded stones. I am disappointed in myself: I flew right past him.

I turn around and start back, I make it to my nameless destination within the city-limits of LA in no time. He is there--Olive skin, brown eyes, glasses, gelled hair, white shirt, tan cargo shorts, darker lanyard sticking out of his pocket, white socks, darker shoes. He turns at me, friendly, happy to see me. I am glad to see him. We talk, laughing. We see various things. We long board together. As our time together continues, I begin to notice, though, that something is pushing him away. Something fundamental, some force that I cannot control. Our words grow few, our time quiet.

I keep picturing the words “Just Like Me… Just Like Me…” Through out our time together, I flash to these words, placed in an unspecified room, the afternoon sun basking them. I meet these words with a grim acceptance, my spirits dampened with each flash. I fear that I irk him, but I continue to try. I continue to try to get him to laugh. I try to get him enjoy being my friend, and the harder I try, the easier it becomes to bear with what lies around the corner.

I turn around, and he is gone. He’s vanished, but, somehow, I know exactly where he is. I don’t know how I knew his time had come; maybe it was because a thousand others had exited the same way. Grimly, I go to search for him. I longboard down the boulevards, leaving the city, doing lip tricks on the mesas oh the desert.

He is there, on a road that cuts through a boulder. He’s leaning against one of them as I approach. Upon seeing me, he turns my way. There is a Jeep on the road. An insignificant black girl leans against the car. I tell him to leave with me, back to our day, back to wherever we call home.

He apologizes, but declines. I hear those words that announce the end of yet another departure. “I have to go.”

Immediately I understand. I do not protest. I do not cry. I do not get angry. I simply watch as he slides into the passenger seat. The black girl turns to me and spouts hatefully, “You’re ignorant!” before getting into the driver’s seat. I do not turn to watch them turn away. I simply grab my longboard and walk the nameless distance home.

Before I know it, I am home, I am walking into my room. It is a dorm room. College. I turn to my desk. Along the top of the desk, where my bed in the Bunk Bed Combo lies, a black banner reads. “Just Like Me…”, Basked in the Late afternoon sun.

I turn to the sun, peeking through the grated blinds. Words of a song sitting in my head. I do not cry. Not until I’ve written this down. Now I’m trying to keep it together.

LINK:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rl_aC2ec9_8

Defining Genius....

This was a written form of an internal Dialog i had to dissect my TOK presentation topic. It's quite lengthy... so bear with me.

What defines Genius?
Dran: Genius’s are smart…
Yam: Well… let’s back up, who would we classify as genius?
D: Albert Einstein--the man came up with the theory of relativity. E=mc^2.
Y: So, he was great because of those things?
D: Well, they proved he was an exceptional theoretical physicist.
Y: What about the other physicists in the world? Why aren’t they geniuses?
D: …What did they do?
Y: What do you mean? They are defined to be something worth reading based on what they did?
D: Albert Einstein was.
Y: By your definition, a historian can never be a genius.
D: … Can historians be considered great? What does a historian have to do to be considered ‘great’?
Y: Lord Acton, a historian born in 1834, set out to compose a ‘History of Liberty’. He never did. However he did manage to collect a magnificent library of the history of Liberty.
D: Ah, so then, he created something!
Y: Did he? All he did was put things together, much like our friend Albert Einstein.
D: Ah… well, what about artists? How can they be considered great? Why do people still listen to the Beatles and Chopin? How can people stand to stare at Rembrandt? What makes interpretive dancing worth interpreting?
Y: Well music is probably the easiest to examine. When we listen to music, especially music we listen to over and over again, we are searching for something, right?
D: Well, I don’t know… what do you mean?
Y: Name one of your favorite songs that is popular, or just your favorite.
D: I do enjoy the song “So in this hour” by the Rocket Summer…
Y: Well, why is it your favorite?
D: It speaks to me. It is relatable. It lets me know that my struggles that I was facing at the time weren’t so… inexpressible.
Y: That’s why the rocket summer has the fan base it does. The lead singer--Bryce Avery--reaches out and teaches people in a way that has them temporarily set free from their own issues. Some of his songs celebrate human strength, they appeal to teenagers… but does that make him go down in history as a genius? Along with Mozart, Chopin, the Beatles, Michael Jackson, and Jimi Hendrix?
D: No. Not even close.
Y: Why not?
D: His fan base isn’t large enough.
Y: During Mozart’s time, one commentator stated that his music had “too many notes.” Fan Base may not necessarily determine greatness.
D: I see… well, Jimi Hendix reinvented the guitar. He played it beautifully and without question in a matter that no one had played before.
Y: The key words are “no one” and “before.”
D: Oh?…Oh…
Y: Greatness and Genius may not be subject to fan base, which is based purely on emotion, but on the revolutionary aspects of what was thought before. Jimi Hendrix opened new doors with his playing than ever before. Rembrandt and Vermeer captured an essence of life with paint and brush, allowing people to see with new life and did so in a method that could almost never be replicated. Examine the theory behind anyone of Mozart’s Violin Concertos or Bach’s Partitas, and you see why these names are held in such high regard.
D: That makes sense… But what about the human science? How can someone be a genius at something that simply is?
Y: hmmm… Well, Hitler is the obvious choice for a genius [whether he is diabolical or not is up to you.]
D: K…. he was a politician that somehow managed to get an entire race to believe that it was better than every other race on the planet.
Y: The genius in this instance was his ability to mold the human psyche of an entire race.
D: Alright-- That’s one notable person. But how can their be multiple people in this field? How many people can be considered great for explaining things about people?
Y: It depends on who is explaining what and how they do so. Nietzsche’s “Good and Evil Reconsidered” took people and separated them into three different categories--those with slave morality, those with master morality, and those in between. He describes both slaves ad masters being principled with the only difference being what the morals were and who they benefited. He places both moralities higher than those who are in-between. The “in-betweeners” struggle with both moralities, and face the most turmoil as such. Ayn Rand’s philosophy of Objectivism is a great extension of this same doctrine.
D: And these people are great… how? How did they put these things together?
Y: The ways of knowing are Language, Perception, Emotion, and Reason. Hitler used Rhetoric to redefine a race. The Words he used in his speech carried a connotation and a message appealing to the audience--the Aryan’s. His view of people subsequently created six years of an attempted genocide. He changed their reasoning, manipulated their emotions and perception, and even unleashed the power of language--body, political, spoken, what have you.
D: Oh? So one has to utilize all those ways of knowing?
Y: Not necessarily.. Although Hitler did take full advantage of his ability to manipulate the ways of knowing, scholars may receive considerable merit.
D: Oh…like who?
Y: Lois Lowry wrote a book on the possibility of a sort of Utopia existing. She manipulated perception by using ambiguous language to describe reality and potent language to describe the memories given to the main character, Jonas. Her mastery in language and perception to influence the emotions and reason of the reader earned her the Newberry Award. The book was titled “The Giver.”
D: So it seemed like she utilized all the ways of knowing to create her story… where is the partiality?
Y: Her story, though entertaining and reflective, cannot be called genius. In the literary world, the works of honor are often with a more prestigious award, or are canonized based on the themes they handle. While her work is noteworthy of achievement, what has she done? Has she changed the way people think? Has she done anything to allude to an aspect of reality?
D: Okay… so she didn’t create anything that society to benefit from?
Y: No. However, Nobel-Prize winner Miguel Angel Asturias compiled a romance between an Assassin and the daughter of an enemy of the state in a totalitarian society. His mastery of western literature and the structure of Government and the a society underneath a Totalitarian Rule. The entire could learned from the state of the people in the book. Asturias delved into and unexplored perception of the oppressed subjects of people who went insane, fought insanity, and blurred the lines between reality and the terrors of the mind. Reason became redefined as the effects of a government where everyone was living in fear of the “President.” Emotion and Intuition become the driving source of knowledge for several characters, which either saves them or is their undoing. Angel Asturias goes much more in depth in the ways of knowing, and presents a topic that is delivered so it gives an emotional account of dictator governments.
D: Ah…so… we have the geniuses in the arts, history, sciences, natural sciences, and human sciences defined, but what about Mathematics?
Y: Mathematics centers less around emotion and more around perception and reason. Mathematics is known as the universal language, so the emphasis of genius relies on logic and coloring or perception and reason. Issac Newton--
D: The Physicist--
Y: Invented Calculus, ironically, in order to prove his own theories. Calculus was a pioneering venture, explaining not only how one can accurately examine past occurrences in nature, but also to predict future occurrences in sciences\, human statistics, and such. Genius are given a new name-- Pioneers.
D: What do you mean by that statement?
Y: Let’s review 1st what we can about Geniuses.
D: Alright. We know that Geniuses do not create--they merely identify new ways of processing the world and its phenomenon.
Y: Is that all they do? Let’s not forget Jarvick, the creator of the artificial heart. He is, without a doubt, a medical genius.
D: Was he? I suppose that would merit the work of a genius… the geniuses must simply contribute to society, in a way, that has not been done before. This contribution must also not only be unique but ‘beneficial’ to society.
Y: Hitler--
D: Used rhetoric to distort what would usually be reprehensible into something society would deem to be beneficial. So society must be able to approve of its worth as a contribution.
Y: Alright what else?
D: In order society to approve of the contribution, and thus, recognize the individual as a genius, they must be tutored, either by the individual themselves, or by other individuals capable of deconstructing the methodology of the individual to the masses. Society must understand that which is unknown as it is known by the genius to be.
Y: Correct, anything else?
D: Remember Josef Mengele? The doctor who compiled research on the human eye and made advances in medicine? He was supported by a different genius.
Y: Hitler… what’s your point?
D: Geniuses are often seen as pioneers. They head out to the unknown and, in turn, pave the way for other, different geniuses. Think of all the sociologists and rhetoricians who stud Hitler’s means of controlling the population of Germany. Imagine the world without the Human Genome Project, because of Darw--
Y: Ah yes, Darwin. He was the victim of many persecutions from hi community because of his work.
D: Yes but those who weren’t supportive of his work simply weren’t the right society, which brings me to my next bullet--all these efforts cannot be realized to the wrong society or audience.
Y: That’s believable-- Hitler’s message would not have, and didn’t, fly with the “inferiors” because they were not capable, nor willing, to hear his message.

The morning After...

Can We pretend that Airplanes in the Night Sky are like Shooting Stars?
I could really use a Wish right now...
-Haley Williams of Paramore

The regret has set in deep. I suppose I should say that I should've known better. Of course, everyone knows what they've been told. That's the problem. We are always told.

Today, I couldn't feel much like doing anything. I had betrayed what little faith God had in me... I think. That's the painful part. It's always the uncertainty that the Bible stirs in me. I have discovered that I have no Faith in God's character, in his morals, in his grace. I wish not to reject God... but It's really starting to look like that there is nothing that I can do to keep this relationship alive. I'm on my last legs.

I suppose... that this may be the end of Him and I. I should get used to this lonely life. And yes, it is lonely: the guy even told me that he didn't love me.

If i could have a wish... I'd wish that God never thought me up.

I don't like the person that I am becoming.

I am without explanation for my latest transgression, like so many I had committed beforehand. There will be consequences to the actions I have taken. I may even lose friends over this. I cannot say it will be easy, or that I am prepared for what may come, but i wish to just... say it.

I had sex. I knew this Guy in Los Angeles who I had met online, and had been talking to about a few weeks ago. I had told my mom that i had gone to LA, to see the museum, and i was, but with a friend. Instead, I slept with him, and we did several other activities outside of the bedroom: Saw Toy Story 3, visited an H&M Store, and i bought a book by Derrick Jensen Titled A Language Older Than Words. We talked about television shows and coffee and ate at a diner

But i Still had sex. I still broke a vow of fidelity. I still killed my marriage, before the thing even started. When my friend went to go try on some clothes at H&M, I stood amongst the racks of clothing while people filed through to find the right sizes for them, their kids and friends, and I realized that we never feel so alone as to when we are in a crowd. It seems like the Loneliness is accentuated by the live juxtapositions.

I nearly Cried in the Damn store. I realized that i may continue to look for validation my entire life. I was told what i needed to do to live, but what counted as follow those now seemingly arbitrary rules?

today, i lost just another touch of humanity.

I don't like the person i am becoming... i feel... dead. Like a painting without depth.

soooo..... I'm thinking about starting a VLOG...

What is a Vlog, you say?

Well, i would suppose that a Vlog serves the same purpose a blog, but gives the "vlogger" the ability to record all of their work and post it on youtube. Sound like something that might be up my alley? comment with your thoughts :)