A Wheady Mile

On the starboard side, green lights flourished. Passengers and crew alike staggered to the deck and to the cold railing, peering over the frigid boundaries between ship and sea to glance at the strange phenomenon. We are on the Titanic, and the iceberg has just sunk in a fury — the ship creaked and lunged like a woman full of sehnsucht. The captain screamed, predictably, “Damn the icebergs! Full steam ahead!” A poor old woman lost her footing as the invincible ship lurched in a moment of rare mortality, slipping on the ice-coated hardwood floor, landing on her side with a thud. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

And here is the beginning, a mess. The cacophony will subside accordingly, with respect to the destination. There it is (the beginning), in front of you:

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We go from here, a short little journey — long-winded perhaps, but short. By the docks. The clouds twisted thick and dark, and people in long black formal wear march onto the ship in roves and clusters. What follows is a polite non sequitur. Watching the birds dance overhead, cawing atonal tunes, torrents of sounds, intersecting with the lapping of waves ashore, Harold meets Cathy for the first time. He bends down a little, reaches her hand and kisses it gently. His voice comes out rough and coarse, but he quickly catches himself by coughing slightly and restarting his sentence. Politely smiling, Cathy avoids Harold by excusing herself to her imaginary husband, which she quickly names Germain. Foghorn blows, twice — three times before the last passengers and crowd members turn around to look at the ship, ready to depart.

The first three days consist of almost constant diving into black holes, swerving across whirlpools and gusts of tremendous winds. Several crewmembers, including the generic black cook, were tossed overboard, never to be seen again, giving off Wilhelm screams as they flew upwards and fell downwards in beautiful arcs. The captain is also generically old with a thick white beard, wearing also white. He speaks with a slight French accent, or so it seems — he might be Belgian, or something along those lines.

Furies are furious — obvious, yes, but the hisses are quite piercing, like none other. The type that blows up windows and slices eardrums open, leaving sloshes of blood on the deck for poor boys to mop up. They appear once in a while, usually when the clouds turn red: full red, red enough to gloss over the ocean ripples and give the horizon a hellish tint. Psychedelic shit.

Waves rolling on and on and on.

==

==

  ==

     ==

They do get broken up by the gigantic hull, the peaks stretching upwards desperately against gravity. Over yonder, gravity flips out every so often — twisting and turning, pushing and pulling at different rates at different times, depending on the Earth’s mood and the sun’s generosity. When gravity feels angry, as it did some two and a half weeks into the trip, it tosses the boat and the sea sideways, so we were sailing up the sky, like a rocket, or more like a reverse shooting star.

I am the other side of Twombly’s canvas; I am Pollock’s brush; I am Picasso’s circle. So it follows, that our ship is the Queen Anne’s Revenge’s nuclear engine. Fling your (my) arms on the deck, and spin around like this insane world, and breathe in the insane fire-infused air. Such is the volatile oxygen we love — and then the helium that lifts up the sails and suspends our disbelief and the sweet water below. Ick ter ram bles tem frim              dur

        klik               sorat                                     fa— maday do re

king of                                  jack le  greer

                    heart (less)                                                                         1261997

hilde                                                 shobmetu…

                                                                                                        gard

Let us, as Eliot enjoys saying, bring ourselves out of this circumstance of confusion and absurdity, to more of the same. Except this time, we have become elevated, in an inverted sense, like Virgil tugging your arms, coaxing you to see Brutus. “Look at him, laughing his liver out. Prometheus would do the same, but he has to make do with his goddamned gallbladder.” Yossarian would say the same about Snowden, while I’m stuck at the front of the ship, looking through binoculars at Zeus and his small “thunderbolt,” oh what a wrinkly sight. Cue the censorship that inevitably comes, like greed with capitalism and stupidity with general humanity. And oh the humanity, and this pathetic monologue that continues with spite and inscrutability and your utter [negative emotional response]. Sing a Christmas carol for Uncle Ben; we have just arrived at a snowcapped village in the Alps. Say hi to Santa; he’s working on some brandy at the moment.

Sailors dance and laugh and clap their hands. Oi oi, yes?

…and the mast crashed down, with a surprisingly quiet thud, but conjoined with terrifyingly loud shrieks from the scampering crew. I arrived with but a bucket in my arms, probably with a panicked look on my face, whole body shivering, unable to take a single step in any direction. Beyond this initial spasm of shock, I realized that I was also utterly confused; having only woken up minutes prior, I had no idea what the origin of this commotion was, and that the sky was perfectly blue dispelled my first suspicion that it was a terrible storm. This confusion refused to subside, even after I most convincingly saw with my own acute eyes two large tentacles drag across the watery deck two sailors, and then yank them with alarming force down to the sea. I must have dropped the bucket at this point and ran — and I ran towards really nowhere, stopped by the torrent of water flooding in, and then stopped in the opposite direction by flailing tentacles thrashing every inch of lumber into wooden shards in front of me. This, as interpreted by me, my cue to jump ship. And I did, without hesitation or second thought, though the moment my feet ceased contact with ship, the falling sensation brought my mind back to rationality for just a brief moment in time, in which I flashed through highlights of my life — but it was so quick, it was only a crumpled collection of sounds and blurred images — and I was back. My eyes widened and then slammed shut as my body prepared to meet the waves face first, and the second it did, I felt an electric tingle go through me, followed immediately by the complete loss of control. The next memory I can remember is waking up in a white room, and thinking to myself with the greatest amount of certitude that I was in heaven. When I had regained full consciousness, I asked the nurse (a young and pretty brunette) if I indeed was. She chuckled, and said cheerfully that most people think so, and then added with an ironic sense of glee that this was Hell’s waiting room; Satan has a sense of humor, she quipped before walking away.

As the sun sets, we now can see dolphins following our little ship. Look how happy they are! Shall we have them for dinner? I’m kidding of course; dolphin is not a proper dinner item. We’ll save them for tomorrow’s breakfast. Harpooning is a wonderful and fun sport, and I’ll teach you for free. Assuming that you decline, I think we have more space for weird…“anecdotes,” if we may call them that.

Scylla has hives.

Charybdis retired last year to a shit pension.

Remember Odysseus? He dead.

Land is not yet in sight, and I doubt it will be for some time. Nonetheless, the band has begun playing a lovely, catchy fanfare to celebrate the occasion of it being Thursday yesterday. To be clear, we’re currently sailing towards the day after tomorrow; if our maps are correct, then there is a passage that is approaching quickly that would allow us to cut across tomorrow. Time is of the essence. The ship’s traversing a difficult patch of sea, so patience would be good to have at the moment — in the event of a wheady mile, one must be prepared for nothing.

The crew spotted dancing eggplants the following morning, right after sunrise, dancing little purple things on top of oversized lily pads. The boat slowed considerably, rocking and creaking, pushing the lily pads out of the way with conviction but without force. The photographer emerged and pulled out his camera, snapping tens and hundreds of pictures of the curious sight. Curious, yes, because some of the eggplants, once under the long morning shadow of the ship, stopped their jolly dance and leaned in towards the ship, as if inspecting it, or listening.

In the middle, there is a dream. It’s full of fuzzy lines and slurred words, foggy and such. Neither of us is in control. You’ve become possessed, you and I are puppets of the unconscious, and of society. Tada, you’d say. Look at this mess of blood you’ve created. Wielding a rusted dagger — pointing at a child. You have the sin of loneliness. Drifted off course, floating aimlessly, where the horizon no longer exists, and sea and sky are melded together into a choking mix of air and water.

And. Here…

        We.

        Go.

She and I were sitting on the porch, watching the birds fly in circles in front of us caw and sing. It had been a terrible week, for the both of us, having lost so much. We never bothered looking behind, where we knew it was still smoking, and smelling of burnt bodies. We sat there forever, not saying a single word; only placing our fingers on top of each other’s, and breathing quietly. Then, perhaps after several hours, once we could feel the heat on our back, we looked at each other — there was a smile below the sad eyes.

        I ran out to the street to the snow and the fire. The flames were blazing loudly so that I couldn’t hear myself shouting in glee. Next to me, June ran alongside with her hands flailing and her face gleaming. It no longer felt cold. The moon was smiling from above, up in the cloudless sky that was just starting to disappear amid the smoke. We ran for a long time — I can’t remember — until we were out of breath, panting heavily, and the sound of fire felt distant. I turned towards her, and her sweet little face, hidden behind that long, brown hair. She smiled, and we sat down in the middle of the street and held hands, and looked around at the dark woods surrounding us, those tall skinny trees that somehow looked so innocent now. Away from the fire the air was chilled and quiet. And we just sat there, silent, for hours probably, waiting, faced towards the oncoming storm. I think she fell asleep, leaning on my shoulder. I must have fell asleep too, but when I opened my eyes, the sky was still dark. By then, June was up, staring into the woods to her left. The trees had started bending, its trunk buckling, the branches swaying slowly.

        Sooner or later the temperature will start rising. The sky will turn orange and red as a hot wind blasts through the helpless, feeble forest. I’ll hold her close by as the radiance becomes piercing, and the intensity leaves us breathless. And before this final sunrise takes us, I’ll turn to her with watered eyes and a wide, nostalgic smile:

        “Let’s go now! Let’s go somewhere extraordinary!”

We’ve come to a dark place, and you’re not welcome.

Ambience

soft soft          my gentle

 and

            could not the piano     stop?

hush hush           dear

it is only a car passing      swiftly       urgent

                           so may i run?

now now         here    here

                tis something strange   wonderful

yes?       

  lovely how rain sparkles down

silky    soil  through

space

oh yes yes delicate skin

                        oh how those sweet chords do hang

    aromatic air    exquisite every        breath

            shall we pause for a minute?

                                     each sound must die first

each with its own        personal

                                                moment

mournful ambience for each dying

                                                moment

                           so in its                    final

breath a tinge        kind         

so kind            a hint

            so you must say           and   think

oh beautiful sound

oh pretty noise

                                                and then

                        out of pure      love

silence

To Adulthood

When I was two years old, I ran down the narrow hallway of my house and into my parent’s bedroom, and jumped onto my mom, who was pregnant with my little sister. The lights were turned off. I think she scolded me or something, but I only remember her vaguely shushing me, and then walking out back into the living room a little embarrassed. That is my earliest memory, though it’s become more of a collection of words, a narration; the images are fading, like old photos.

When I was six years old, I was put into the ESL class in kindergarten because I had only spoken Chinese at home, so my English was less than proficient. I remember my friend asking me if I had farted when we were in the car; I nodded meekly—I didn’t know what “fart” meant. Despite the embarrassment, I kept speaking Chinese at home and let my English slowly improve as the years went on, new words finding their way into my head. They’re still coming in.

When I was nine years old or so, I threw a tantrum during recess, and Ms. Anderson gave me detention. I was to stay in the classroom the next day, but I didn’t. Ms. Anderson found me on the blacktop and hauled me into the classroom. I don’t think she was pleased.

When I was twelve, my family moved to Saratoga. I didn’t want to leave my friends in Los Altos, so over the summer I came up with a list of excuses that I could use in order to stay in my old school district. But the first day at Redwood Middle School rolled around, and I never ended up saying anything. All those thought out plans just crumpled that morning; I suppose I did not have the courage, the will, though I can’t say I remember exactly why. I walked into Mr. Steffan’s room and sat next to a boy who was also new to the school: his name was Jay. We became best friends through seventh and eighth grade, and although he was Indian, he had a big nose so we joked that he was secretly a Jew.

In eighth grade, I was bullied by some kids in PE. They would especially target me when we played dodgeball or capture the flag, and would verbally taunt me. I thought it was quite funny and entertaining actually, but when they were caught in the act once, near the end of the school year, I got called into the principal’s office to tell the story. I don’t know why, but I ended up crying in there. It was weird, because none of the “bullying” actually hurt until I had to talk about it in front of those discerning adults.

When I was a freshman, I began hanging out with the overachieving Asian guys. Jay began hanging out with the drama kids, and another one of my best friends from middle school attempted suicide. I got a B+ in freshman English, so I didn’t think I was good at English. I was good at history, and did well in math and biology. I didn’t think much of engineering at the time though.

Between sophomore year and junior year, I took a three week long summer course at Stanford in Philosophy and Literature. We watched a movie called Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind as part of the curriculum. It was a good movie, so I searched it up online. Its genre was “postmodernist”. The following day, I went to the bookstore to find some postmodernist books, and I ended up buying a copy of Donald Barthelme’s Sixty Stories. It was intriguing—unlike anything I’d read before. Something happened in that moment, and I started writing my own stories the beginning of junior year.

During junior year, I got a girlfriend. We met in eighth grade in an outside orchestra. It’s a long story for those first three years, but she confessed the day before the SAT that she liked me, and we wound up dating for almost five months. We had our first kiss on top of a hill at sunset on Valentine’s Day. Towards the end, even though it became apparent that things weren’t going very well, I kept on being optimistic, perhaps in vain, and believed that things would get better. She obviously didn’t; she was always more negative and pessimistic, and dumped me over Facebook the second week of summer.

We live in fragments: first period, second period, Monday, Tuesday, October, November, seventeen, eighteen, little events that compound on each other, points of time that mold us constantly but intermittently. We are little more than fragments, the amalgamation of events and conditions and consequences: a fractured narrative.

So as I trace my way back to the boy that was four feet tall and spoke little English, I get lost. Somewhere along the way, the thoughts and decisions no longer match up with who I am now, and what remains is but a vague, distant reflection of me. I don’t know quite where that place is, and every time I look back, that peculiar point in life is different. I think that is where adulthood begins: it is the time and place where I can relive, look back, and still understand, remember, connect. Where I can start piecing together fragments and make them cohesive again. Where the images are vivid enough and the events close enough for me to say, “Yes, that is me.” The rest can only remain as they are—shattered pieces of a past existence.

Perhaps there is some continuity to a life, a common thread to be found in the chaos of human existence. But either way, its fluidity is eroded by the imperfection of memory and my ever-shifting nature. I suppose in some ways I am still that little kid that used to bounce on his mother’s pregnant belly. We have the same name, after all. But time passes and things happen, and I guess now I’m a little more “grown up,” whatever that means.

Schrödinger’s Dog’s Cat’s Thoughts on Life and Other Things

Here’s the setup, it’s quite straightforward — the door will be sealed off, and then the dog will be right in here, and we’ll be outside waiting. I brought an extra peanut butter and jelly sandwich for you, if you want it, while we’re waiting for the whole thing to unfold. It may take some time.

Have a seat; I know the chair, which is cold steel with sharp edges, looks uncomfortable, but you’ll get used to it. So let us talk about important matters regarding the world, and the state of things generally. Start with a question, shall we?

Where did the dog go? Yes, that is a good question, but I am afraid it yields a not so good answer. The dog is dead, as a matter of fact. Quite dead too — her limbs pulled apart like weeds torn up from the ground, and the head mutilated with blank eyeholes and burnt hair and a missing ear. We don’t know what happened inside that chamber. I suppose the photon pulled out something from its little bag a tricks; photons are crafty particles, you know, much craftier and mischievous than say electrons or neutrinos or elephants.

Speaking of which, the elephant in the room today is named Krantectirous. He is an African Bush Elephant, captured recently by some Kenyan poachers, and brought here on a discrete cargo ship. Not to worry, Krantectirous has been treated fairly well; we feed him twice a day, and his cage is big enough for him to turn 360 degrees, and really, that’s all we can afford at the moment. But right now, he’s in the middle of the room, taking up lots of space, and smelling like manure and grass. We must be diligent, and not get trampled before Krantectirous is tranquilized and put back in his cage. Did I mention that his cage is painted pink? I think it’s a nice touch.

Back to the dog: she’s a three year old yellow labrador, last time I checked, a few minutes before she went into the chamber. Her owner, Dr. Schrödinger, adopted the dog (her name is Liz) from a local shelter when she was only a few weeks old. Liz is, officially, a donation to the Institute, since she is on the materials list for the experiments that Dr. Schrödinger and the other “scientists” are running. (We’ll get back to why I’m using quotation marks around the word scientists later.) Liz is a well-behaved dog, and I heard very little barking when the “scientists” strapped her in on a table and took various measurements and wrote down observations.

I’m the cat, by the way. In case you didn’t notice in the title. These are my thoughts on life and other things. Which is confusing: is it my thoughts on life and other things, or my thoughts on life, AND other things? I doubt that cleared things up, but it doesn’t really matter, I feel. Since I am Schrödinger’s cat (by association), I think we can live with both interpretations being valid. For now, at least. You must bear with me.

The story begins like many others, on a cold November evening, with rain and all; don’t ask me, the pathetic fallacy to me is cliche, yes, but you must bear with me. We are in San Francisco, going up and down Van Ness, without much purpose. Stop at a bookstore. There’s dim, lemonly warm lighting — you find me perched on a bench, looking towards the street. Something happens. You, standing a couple feet away, say something to me (good evening?), and ignore me. Before we branch out any farther, look closely. It’s raining sideways now, and your hat (if you have a hat) is getting soaked by now. Where am I going? Do you move towards the interior of the building, towards the floor-to-ceiling windows and doors, or do you walk away onto the street?

The street’s empty, other than a mass of cars, and specks of pedestrians, shadows of birds flying across the dark skies. If we move inside though, presuming that’s what happened, we’ll end up in a hotel room — plush red pillows, stuffy air, and I’m purring on the bed. Turn on the lights, please. Pretending that a spotlight is upon me, and you and other people are attentive, I start to talk, as I smile and perk up my ears.

C: Man is but the accumulation of his habits and the passage of time.

C: There is no humanity in nature, just as there is no good in indifference.

C: Evil exists not from inevitability, but from necessity.

D: Woof, woof, woof!

That is Mr. Schrödinger’s dog interrupting my speech — rude little creature; that is why she is going into the chamber, instead of me. I hope she dies inside that chamber; I hope the photon decides to be unmerciful and cruel. I gave the photon instructions beforehand, twitching my whiskers at it, deliberately enough so that it must have seen it, but still discrete enough so that the “scientists” would not. Those lab coated bald self-important pseudo-intellects don’t actually see things anyway, so why should I be surprised? I just sulk at their feet, thinking about things and other things.

Things: The thing about things is that it is awfully vague, what these things are, and can be. Versatility, in other words, said someone in the audience, who had a massive, pretentious grin on his face. What a snob. Perhaps I am a snob, one, for writing these digressions; two, for calling someone a snob; three, for admitting the possibility of my own snobbishness; and four, for compiling this list. I am a cat, though — that is my defense.

Other things: One should seek to avoid the outdoors in the event of a thunderstorm; the probability of being electrocuted, though statistically low, can and should be significantly decreased by not being in the vicinity of tall objects and/or swimming pools.

Other other things: When Schrödinger first suggested to me, on a summer afternoon when he was vacationing in France, that I could be both dead and alive at the same time, I mewed a great deal. “What a terribly bizarre idea,” I tried to say with my eyes. But he was looking towards the horizon, which provided no answers.

You keep on shifting in that steel chair, and it is getting to my nerves. Walking in circles is not providing the solace I require at this time. Are you thinking of Lolita again? Dirty bastard. Maybe I’ll feel better if you feed me, but I’m making no promises about not biting you. Back to my thoughts.

The story progresses quickly, if not too quickly, with little to no character development, to a gleaming surface of quartz-like material. Everybody’s standing below the full, unrelenting sun and invisible stars, the wallpaper clouds. We’ll be sweating for a few hours, and I’ll be hovering about, looking for some food. The weather report had predicted a good chance of salmon falling from the sky, and I’m actually optimistic about the chances, as should you. Sounds fishy, but there’s something dense in the air, some thickness to it all, and milky — I like that. The people here are dressed oddly, with disjunct and wild colors that explode on the bare background.

Descriptions aside, not much is happening. There’s an elderly couple standing sort of isolated, to the side, holding hands and looking at each other. Unlike the others, their eyes are at peace. They don’t seem to wander — not searching for something to latch on to. Even when I walk by right by their feet, they don’t notice me, or at least they don’t react. Maybe they’re blind, in the best possible way. Seeing is a vice. Ignorance is bliss. The others are standing there, awaiting the sun to either set or drop. There’s a significant difference between the two options: a setting sun is much more serene, as you may have guessed already, but a dropping sun, though rare, gives off more spectacular colors, like a Pollock painting or a collapsing rainbow. Neither one happens though, as expected, and we’re all hanging here, by our strings of whatever metaphor you want. And while we’re at it, a helicopter circles overhead, peppering the ground with the sounds of chopped air.

C: We are all searching for ourselves in other people.

C: Happiness is the means to the end that is a peaceful death.

D: Woof?

S: Shut up.

C: The warmth of summer is opposed not by the chills of winter, but by its expectations.

More things: If we carefully observe the topography of the letter “G” (only in its capitalized form), we will see that it is indeed a very ugly letter. Its essence consists of a deformed “C” with a sort of tumor growing out if its end, giving itself the impossibility of grace or balance in its structure. But while its aesthetic is abysmal to say the least, there is an interesting dichotomy that appears in its usage within the context of certain words, like “Greatness” or “Gigantic” or more simply, “God”. The English language is filled with linguistic oddities and phenomena, and this is no exception.

By now we've come to a moment of staleness and stillness, where the energy of the crowd has depleted, and I’m feeling an urge to nap. The dog is about ready to come out now; the “scientists” are waiting in great anticipation, waiting to be met with great disappointment. But I’m indifferent, so I continue thinking about the means and ends of life and other things. The giant metal door opens with a hiss — the “scientists,” with masks and goggles and gloves, enter with hesitation. Soon they pull out on a tray Liz’s remains; it is a most gruesome sight, and I scamper away quickly.

People everywhere are scratching their heads as you and I have retreated to another room, where it is quiet and we can actually hold a conversation without interruption or distraction. Let me continue, and you can listen, as the fluorescent lights begin flickering. Our world is slowly breaking down, decaying. Meow, meow, meow. Communication is important, yes, but I’m afraid you’re slipping away from me (or the other way around). Open the door a little bit, letting in the faint murmurs of the “scientists” trying to explain what has just happened. They won’t get an answer; the photon is long gone by now, having bounced away into the void.

The story ends on a cliffside. Though we want it to be a general cliffside, think of Dover Beach, or something along those lines. The weather is cloudy and cold, with a strong wind blowing inland from the sea. You gaze out to the foamy sea, with both hands clutching your wind-blown jacket. Are you thinking of someone special, or some warmer, happier time and place? Think now, and think of one of those two things — or both. I’ll be by a nearby cottage, lying by a crackling fireplace, speaking to an old, shabby woman, who nods and smiles while listening to my wisdom. You can imagine, of course, that I am quite content, away from the godless, sterile labs — but in some odd ways, I’ll still think back fondly of Schrödinger and his unfortunate dog, and I can chuckle from time to time forever, never.

Saratoga Tales: The Tale of the Pseudo-Intellect

For the sake of context, this piece was the product of an assignment for my AP Literature class, in which we were to write a sort of imitation of Chaucer's style using characters/stereotypes found in high school. I decided to go for somewhat of a self-parody. This is the result. Yay!

Only for the most dimwitted person would it possible to miss the Pseudo-Intellect’s confident strut down the school hallways, the way he angled his head most peculiarly and pridefully. He had a gleaming smile that broke through the dread of the stressed majority of students, and though aloof as he often was, his happiness and undying optimism, even when tinged with arrogance, was contagious; for many, being in his presence was enough to make them stand up a few inches taller and be buried in their books a few inches lower. He always carried two or three books under his arm at all times, in addition to his loaded backpack. There were rumors that his backpack was actually filled with bricks, to give only an impression of having a heavy workload, but he, unflinching in the face of these accusations, dispelled the myth by opening his backpack, revealing three 2-inch binders filled to the brim with binder paper. His accusers apologized.

He apparently read the dictionary in third grade, for fun. As preposterous as that claim was, he was, however, in any conversation, able to produce an air of intelligence and assertiveness; his voice was commanding and his speech was persuasive, and all were keen to hear what he had to say without a desire to interject. Of course, he did not really read the original Latin Bible or Swann’s Way as he claimed, and was rather intent on displaying his thin facade of knowledge. To the more intellectually honest and well-read, it was obvious that the Pseudo-Intellect lacked the necessary information or capacity to warrant such boasting, but it was hard not to be at least slightly impressed by the convincing show he put on day in and day out in each of his seven classes.

So when he found himself on the bus, sitting next to a pretty girl he had not been introduced to, who could have blamed him, with all of his assets of persuasion and showmanship, for telling a tall tale? He most often drew from his childhood, which was in reality pleasant but usually made dramatic, which he then laced with brilliant archetypal plot structures or philosophical reveries. Some of them dragged on longer than others, but there were those, such as the one which is currently having its beginning delayed, that latched on to the listener for reasons of awesome entertainment and the occasional genuine epiphany. And now shall the Pseudo-Intellect’s tale begin:

***

When I was little, like say—I must have around five years old? I spent a lot of time outdoors. And by that I mean the little patch of dried grass in my backyard. I was kind of that proverbial kid that turns dirt with a stick all day, and I remember my mother would always be piping at me to read books and do SAT prep and that I was going to get skin cancer from being out too long even though it was clearly raining. I mean, the rain is what makes it fun, you know? That’s when all the worms and roly polies come out, and when you can actually get a fistfull of dirt (or rather mud) without it just seeping through your fingers.

Anyhow, the playing part isn’t the important part. Being outside, that’s when I was able to connect with nature, you see? Being under the sun, under the trees, singing with the bees, Transcendentalist mumbo-jumbo. Out there in the open air, I was able to really discover myself, and—and clear my thoughts. Before that, I used to think that Santa Claus existed, and that ball was life, and that absolute morality was derived from my parents. There were a lot more assumptions, of course, but I won’t bore you with the details. From the day I was born, I was conditioned to fit in, to conform, to become a sheep of society. But I couldn’t allow that. Never. Especially not after seeing the world, being out in nature, and having revelled in the beautiful sensations outside. The discrepancy was simply too great, and for a while I was in this existential conundrum, unsure of what general philosophy I was to adhere to. I was stuck between the world I saw, and the world I was told to believe in.

I was young, full of energy, but I felt old then, as if the whole age of the universe had just sort of descended onto my shoulders, resting on my back as I sat on that patch of dead grass, churning moist dirt. I dropped my stick. I looked up. I sighed. And then I hung my head, staring down at the ground, silently muttering questions of “why?” and “how?” to the slow-moving worms beneath the soil. I was at once angry and defeated, feeling helpless. The sky seemed larger than ever before.

There, I ruminated over the essential questions of life. Though it was hard, and I often found myself frustrated and without direction, I came to an epiphany. It happened so suddenly, you know, just—out of nowhere. All the answers just rushed into my mind like a raging wind, like the clouds parting, like—

Nonetheless, metaphors aside, here’s the answers that I found that afternoon. Firstly, I realized that in order to succeed in this society, you have to be the best. Like, best best. You can’t just pretend, you can’t just—just fake it all. Act like you know everything, as if glossing the surface and using big words could vindicate you from pretentiousness and arrogance—no, you have to actually know it. Otherwise you’re just a faker, and fakers can only go so far.

Secondly, I realized that honesty isn’t the best policy. Being honest, and the worshipping of it, is just really a tool by the insecure and weak to try and pry the truth out of people. Really, truth be told, honesty is overrated. Appearance over reality. That’s my jam. You got to show people what you have, sell it, force it down their throat and them choke them with it, pump up your muscles and tip on your toes, use any means necessary to lower other people down. Now—now that may sound a little mean, or cruel, but hey, that’s just life, you know? That’s reality. Survival of the fittest, yeah? That was a great realization. Helped me a lot.

Thirdly, it was that you have to know yourself before you know other people. I mean, in a mystical sense, you can only see in others what you see, or at least understand, within yourself. So to me, it’s important for me to keep on thinking deep thoughts, internally probe, search hard and long to know myself, and even more importantly, to expand myself. Not physically, of course, I pride myself in staying fit, but intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually. I’ve read all the Wikipedia articles on Neichte and Kant and Aristotle, all their ideas on God and truth and metaphysical stuff. I’ve read Jeffery Chaucer, Shakespeare and all his books and poems, but I also go out of my way to read more recent things too, to keep myself current and all. It’s not all books though, of course. At school, I carefully observe different kinds of students, how they act, how they write, how they talk. Doing so has really opened my eyes as to how I can get better. Get better at what? Well...everything, of course. But anyways, just watching, it helps me avoid social faux pas, and little things like that, small things that would hurt my image, that would diminish my social status. That’s how I stay on top of the game.

So yeah, minus the rather lengthened explanations, that’s what I got from playing outside as a kid.

He Died Tonight

In the depth of night

There was a calling —

Quiet, but so perceivable

Stinging the air (quick vibrations)

He died tonight

(It was expected)

He died in peace

(Thank goodness)

But we live not in peace

(And never will) evil trees

Malice in the clouds

Coughing down acid, and

We melt — slowly, impossibly slow

Listening to the drops

Life oozing by (sand in hourglass)

A broken hourglass, so we’re

Shattered across the floor

Punctured shards —

Deleted time — wasted on love

On things incomplete, finished —

He died tonight

We cried our useless tears —

He died and called

A calling deep and shriveled —

And we shudder — shivering

Throwing sand into the ocean —